To Whom It May Condemn James Bond fanfic novella
by Blinker Hitch
Summary: A weak and watery tribute to the wonderful world of Ian Fleming's James Bond, written in the hope that it will encourage readers to buy and read Ian Fleming's stories. TWIMC is a tribute to Fleming's novels, not the cinema outings, fun though they are.
1. Title

**TO WHOM IT MAY CONDEMN**


	2. Acknowledgements

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks go to all the administrators and members of for encouraging and inspiring me while I wrote my crappy fanfic. Special thanks go to Fenna Geelhoed for listening to my never-ending lamentations.


	3. Foreword

FOREWORD

I've done something naughty. This draft is fairly rough, and some pages are less finished than others, verging on the skimpy. A lack of talent and time defeated me. Innocent readers should therefore prepare to be ambushed by disjointed sentences and awkward phrasing aplenty. To Whom It May Condemn also has a hackneyed plot with a rather lax approach to internal logic.

So why show this story the door and leave it in the street, blinking and unsteady, vulnerable to the first person who wants to hurl a tin can at it? The truth is, I wrote it as a long thank you note to Ian Fleming for the hours of fun his novels and short stories have given me. It was my intention to emulate his writing style but, as better writers than me have discovered, it's a fearsome task. I was curious, however, to see if I could get to the end of the story, and so ploughed on regardless.

TWIMC has something for everyone, I hope: action and gadgets for the general reader, and a few nods, winks and in-jokes for rabid Bond fans. One more warning for the unwary bookworm: I have tried to include some familiar tropes and rhythms by squeezing the typical structure of a Bond novel into a long short story. (Please note that Bond's politics, tastes and attitudes are firmly his own and not mine; similarly, all exclamation marks are Fleming's.) The effect, with any luck, is to sweep the reader through a pastiche of a Bond novel. I hope this isn't too unsettling for the reader.

So there we are. To Whom It May Condemn has three functions: to thank Ian Fleming; to encourage people to enjoy his stories; and lastly to prompt the reader to find in the following morass of prose one paragraph, or even a sentence, that makes them nod in recognition and say to themselves, "Ah, James, there you are! You've been gone too long."


	4. Legal Disclaimer

LEGAL DISCLAIMER

As publication of the following document is likely to result in extensive press coverage, my client has instructed me, in the interests of historical accuracy, to record fully the circumstances pertaining to its first public appearance.

In early 1997 I was contacted by my client to ascertain the legal standing and financial worth (if any) of some shares that had recently come into her possession after the death of a distant relative. Although such a request was outside my normal legal purview, as a long-standing friend of her family I felt obliged to help in this matter _pro bono_. At this point I must stress that my client was prompted to make her request through simple curiosity and not from a wish to profit financially from the legacy. The inheritance consisted of one hundred full shares in the firm of Cox and Company (Limited). However, after an investigation of some days at Company House I discovered that Cox and Co. was a middling banking institution that had ceased trading in 1973. The one hundred shares were thus rendered worthless.

My excitement may be imagined, therefore, when in 1999 I received a call from Company House informing me that renovation work at the former head office of Cox and Co. in Charing Cross had discovered some materials which seemed to belong to the firm. A workman, in installing under-floor heating, had uncovered a battered tin box bearing the legend "John H. Watson, M.D., Late Indian Army". Wishful thinking though it may have been on my part, I hoped that the box (later identified as a Victorian dispatch-box) contained the good doctor's accounts of Sherlock Holmes's unpublished cases. My anticipation was followed by keen disappointment once the box was shown to be empty.

I took possession of the box, now little more than a historical curiosity, and personally delivered it to my client as the sole proceeds from her shares in the defunct Cox and Co. My client, though of sound mind, is unfortunately not as dexterous as in her younger days and allowed the box to fall from her lap and onto the floor. At first, the blow seemed to have done nothing more than add to the box's collection of dents and scratches, but on closer inspection I perceived a hairline crack along the inner face of the lid. The crack proved to be the edge of a secret compartment that contained a typewritten manuscript wrapped in waxed paper. To our amazement, the document appeared to be a previously unknown work by Ian Fleming documenting the career of the intelligence agent James Bond. Textual scholars and historians are free to disagree, but after reading the papers it seems to me that no-one but Fleming could have written such an account; any imitator of his breezy style would surely commit numerous literary faux pas, for such is the fate of second-rate hacks everywhere.

It seems that for reasons known only to Ian Fleming, employed as Bond's ghost-writer and executor of his literary estate, the manuscript was not forwarded to his regular publishers but instead was deposited in the offices of Cox and Co. at Charing Cross. One possible explanation may lie in the long-standing rumour that James Bond was a descendant of Sherlock Holmes. Speculation among Holmesian scholars follows two schools of thought; that Bond's father, the Scotsman Andrew Bond, was the offspring of a liaison between Holmes and the adventuress Irene Adler (whom Holmes always referred to as "_the_ woman"), or that he was conceived during Holmes's three-year withdrawal from public life, commonly known as the Great Hiatus. Although pointing to nothing conclusive, the discovery of a Bond document in a box belonging to Holmes's closest friend does give food for thought. I have been unable to establish more than a circumstantial link between the two men, but the possibility of a blood link has not yet been discredited.

The only documentary evidence is the brown folder, labelled "Head of Archives: For Information Only", which contained the loose-leafed pages. It is marked with a red star (significance unknown), below which appears the prefix, "To Whom It May Concern" written in freehand. The phrase "For Your Eyes Only" is stamped, rather carelessly, across the first page of the text. The text itself is unsigned and undated, but reading between the lines it is safe to assume that it was written some time in the late 1950s. It may be supposed that the story was thought too sensitive for publication, or that Sir Richard White, the then head of MI6, suppressed the file.

On contacting SIS (formerly MI6), I was told that the relevant files regarding Bond had been lost in the move from Regent's Park to the organisation's new headquarters at Vauxhall Cross. If that is the case, one can only hope that more files from the Double-O Section are extant, wherever they may be, and that future researchers and academics might unearth more information about this shadowy figure of Cold War Britain. The full implementation of the Freedom of Information (UK) Act by January 2005 should further the cause of those seeking to bring to light previously classified information.

To her credit, my client took the brave decision to publish the text, feeling that the public had the right to know what was contained within. Despite numerous rebuffs from the British establishment and, I must record, a quite disgraceful attempt to discredit her good name, she has remained resolute in her decision. So tortuous has been the legal process since the discovery of the manuscript that there have been times when I wished that I had never heard the name of Cox and Co. Despite favourable legal rulings in both the High Court and the European Court of Human Rights, publication was continually blocked by the Home Office and the Ministry of Defence, who claimed that any publicity involving SIS jeopardised national security. Fortunately, this year's phased commencement of the Freedom of Information Act tipped the balance decisively in my client's favour.

Whether the alarming events in the following narrative ever actually took place must again be a matter for conjecture. One must remember that Sherlock Holmes frequently complained about Dr Watson's embellishment of what he saw as academic treatises; it is for the reader to decide whether Ian Fleming (a former member of the intelligence services who specialised in misleading the enemy during the Second World War) was guilty of the same offence with regard to Mr Bond.

William Makepeace Q.C.

December 2004

(Revised October 2005)

Cayman Islands


	5. Editor's Note

Editor's note:

_Publishing etiquette requires that the anonymous document handed to me by Mr Makepeace must adopt a title. This seemingly trivial matter confounded the attempts of all involved until late one evening, when a sharp-eyed member of the editorial team noticed a curious anomaly in the document's very first line. It appears that an unknown hand amended the first sentence, using a now faded green ink. After discussing the matter with Mr Makepeace and his client, it was decided to approve the corrected line as the title for this latest release from CBn Publications Ltd._


	6. Aphorism

When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create no trouble in thy breast. Remember me, but, ah, forget my fate.

_Dido and Aeneas_, Henry Purcell


	7. Contents

_**CONTENTS**_

Young Pigeons

A Quiet Day at the Office

Any Storm in a Port

Angels' Breasts and Belly-Busters

Pop Goes the Weasel

Jankers

A Thaw Point

Rush Job

Second Class All The Way

There are Worse Things in Life

Parlour Pink

Ain't That a Kick in the Head?

A Vroom with a View

The Very Thing


	8. Chapter 1 - Young Pigeons

YOUNG PIGEONS

The mind tends to wander when it has nothing to do. Boredom, indolence, inertia; all these can serve to steer the mind's eye down gloomy sideroads and detours, the road less travelled. For some the destination may result in the sublime – a Beethoven symphony perhaps, or the theory of relativity; for others, the mundane – the gas bill, the twins' school fees, an impending appointment with the dentist. Some fall between the two.

As he watched a shapely pair of calves return to the curtained galley of the B.E.A. Stratocruiser, James Bond pondered as to why air stewardesses always seemed much prettier on outward-bound flights. Perhaps it was because the smiling Valkyries promised that the grass would indeed be greener on the other side of the fence. Bond glimpsed a stern expression peeking through a gap in the galley curtains – one of the senior stewardesses who no doubt wanted to stop the world and get off. Other idle thoughts crossed his mind. What did the older stewardesses do once the jet lag and air miles became too much? How early did the hunt for a rich businessman begin? Years of observation must surely have honed the little stratagems and ploys used to snare their quarry: the lingering eye contact; the leaning over to settle a cushion; and the returned brush of arm against thigh. How they must fix their smiles, even as varicose veins climbed their weary way from aching arches to – what did one call the back of the knee? Bond made a mental note to ask the Service Doctor. And if the sleek prey got away? Presumably they settled for one of the pilots or, at a pinch, a flight engineer – he smiled at nature's way of ranking, even in the pressurised atmosphere of a jet plane. One of nature's immutable laws: one never saw a young pigeon or an old stewardess.

Ice tinkled in his glass of passable whisky as the plane banked sharply for its final approach to Lisbon Airport. Bond normally avoided nostalgia, considering it to be a futile pursuit, but this time his mind seemed to mimic his drink and old memories began to slop over the brim. God, what would he have given for a glass of rotgut during the Dublin-Lisbon run, when the trigger-happy Luftwaffe was quite prepared to rake a so-called diplomatic flight from Eire? Bond could still recall the shock of seeing swastikas and R.A.F. roundels sitting side-by-side at Granja do Marquis airbase. His sense of displacement had been heightened by the malevolent, almost Biblical, name of the material responsible for his visit: wolfram. Despite the exotic appellation, wolfram was a rather mundane mineral whose only claim to fame lay in its essential role in processing tungsten for steel alloys in machine tools and armaments. The Iberian peninsula had been busy providing Germany with virtually its entire wartime supply, for which service Portugal and Spain happily divided the profits in the most civilised and neutral of manners. In the same vein, the Banque Nationale Suisse, thinking only of preserving the sacred neutrality of international commerce, had efficiently overseen the conversion of Nazi gold into escudos and pesetas. It had been Bond's job to disrupt this cosy arrangement. And there Garbo had fallen into his lap.

The captain's announcement of Flight BEA 42's imminent arrival in Lisbon interrupted Bond's reverie. Stewardesses mother-henned their way down the aisle, collecting glasses and ensuring belts were buckled. Bond felt a gentle cuff at the base of his spine as the plane kissed the runway, and then an invisible giant pushed him forward as the Stratocruiser's brakes gently slowed the great metal tube to taxiing speed. More than fifteen years earlier, when the Aer Lingus Teoranta flight had eventually juddered to a halt at the far end of the runway, Bond had had to step carefully to avoid the pools of vomit that swilled along the Douglas DC-3's gangway. Now, coddled by BEA's excellent hospitality, he smiled warmly at the young stewardess and received a coldly appraising glance from her senior colleague. Heat bounced off the expanse of dirty concrete as Bond rehearsed his cover on the way to the airport building. No being whisked through Customs this time. A customs officer scrutinised Bond's passport.

"Is your visit to Portugal for business or pleasure, Mr Chivers?"

"All business, I'm afraid," smiled Bond.

"What is the purpose of your visit?"

"I'm a travel writer. The Sunday Express has commissioned me to write a series of articles on nascent tourist destinations. When I've finished here I'll be off to Spain."

The customs officer pursed his lips and handed back Bond's passport. "Here we say that the only good thing that comes from the east is the sun." A thin smile. "Enjoy your stay."

Bond thanked him. It never hurt to appeal to local vanities when dealing with border officials. Once through Customs, Bond revived an old wartime habit and hailed the third taxi in the rank, telling the driver to take him to the Halcyon. He would have chosen his wartime hotel but preferred not to run the risk of being recognised by a long-serving staff member.

Bond sat back in his seat and tried to ignore the racket blasting from the taxi-driver's radio. He wound down a window and allowed the warm air to scour his face and wash away any last remnants of London. He was free at last; free to get on with things, to shake the dust from his heels and feel alive once more. A break between songs offered a respite and in the relative silence of car horns and gear changes, a muted chinking sound reached Bond's ears. The taxi-driver had the unusual habit of driving with a rosary clasped in his left hand, and Bond wondered whether his continual playing with it had transformed the gold of a celestial link into the base metal of worry beads. Perhaps it was simply a rather primitive form of car insurance.

The late evening sun gilded the road before him and Bond smelled with pleasure the heady mix of pine, sea air and exhaust fumes that presaged the taxi's plunge into the seven hills of central Lisbon. A catchy salsa rhythm from the radio accompanied the taxi's tango with trams, suicidal pedestrians and one recalcitrant donkey. Bond dangled a hand over the windowsill, enjoying the feel of the warm steel under his fingers. Unconsciously his fingers began to mimic the infectious music, flicking and jumping in a St Vitus dance. His musical possession was cut short when the driver braked sharply to avoid hitting an unhurried old lady who had decided to cross the road in her own good time. Bond held his hand up to the setting sun, which was still strong enough to shine redly through the edge of his fingers. For a second he imagined he could see the scaffolding of bone underneath the carapace of flesh. Strange. His fingers felt supple, strong and utterly obedient. Yet they had betrayed him not twelve hours ago in a different world; a world of rain, of boredom, of plopping gas fires and football coupons.


	9. Chapter 2 - A Quiet Day at the Office

A QUIET DAY AT THE OFFICE

The grey chalk pencil bounced on the blotter, rolled along the desk, evaded Bond's outstretched left hand and dropped to the carpet. He frowned. Steffi Esposito used to tumble a fat Mont Blanc through his fingers like a perpetual motion machine, all the time watching Bond sweat over juvenile card skills like the Texas Shuffle. And now Bond couldn't manage the same trick with a pencil. When he had first met the East Coast hustler before the war, Steffi had drawled in his Noo Yawk accent: "Card–sharpers know one thing above all else: fumblers deal a dead man's hand." He bent down to pick up the pencil and felt a wave of nausea.

This morning Bond would have been hard pushed to open a pack of cards without spilling the contents. He reflected that bad things always come in threes: losing too much money at backgammon the night before; drinking too much bad and over-priced casino champagne whilst doing so; and, as a special treat, enduring a rebuff from an old trout of a diplomat's wife at the end of a rotten evening. All had combined to leave Bond in a foul mood. Discovering the next morning that Loelia Ponsonby had taken the last two tablets of Phensic from his desk had not helped. His secretary's mumbled explanation that she had "felt a little faint" had left both of them embarrassed. Women's troubles, no doubt. Why couldn't women manage their own damned supplies? Surely they knew what time of the month it was? Bond knew that some of his pounding headache was caused by the guilty knowledge he had been rather brusque with her. He'd make it up to her, he supposed. Bunch of flowers, or something. Perhaps Moneypenny could give him a hint.

Bond's bloodshot eyes glanced at the two empty desks in his roomy office. He could certainly do with a hint from the rest of the Double-O Section about the ogre who lived beneath the headquarters of the Secret Service. There was little love lost between Bond and the Commando who ruled the dingy floormat in the building's basement. 008 was an ex-Commando who might give him a little inside knowledge, but Bill was still in Rhodesia tracking an arms link to the Eastern Bloc. 0011 was off on a jaunt in the Far East. Perhaps Francis would show Bond some new Jujitsu moves on his return. Bond rubbed his stiff neck. The morning exercise session had been an unscheduled and unwelcome addition to his day. Had he detected a touch of relish in Ponsonby's relaying of the order from the Chief of Staff? He supposed it was inevitable that aggressive men might end up locking horns, but Bond thought Maddox took a little too much pride in his "Silent Killing Course". In Bond's experience, dying men tended to go out with a bang, not a whimper. After a grim, silent struggle, punctuated only by the odd gasp, the two men had retired honours and bruises even, though he had barely managed to restrain himself from kicking Maddox in the nethers as an afterthought.

Immediately after Unarmed Combat came a trip to the shooting gallery, courtesy of the Chief of Staff's suggestion: "If you can shoot straight when your hands are shaking, so much the better." Bond's shoulders had ached during the session and now so did his wallet. He was determined not to lose any more money to the Instructor, the pleasant but maddeningly competent firearms officer. Only a lucky snap-shot had saved Bond from handing over a sight more than half a crown. And now, to cap it all, Bond's red telephone began to ring. So much for a quiet day at the office.

Bond lifted his jacket from the back of his chair and entered the connecting office. Ponsonby heard his curt 'M' without looking up. He shrugged, continued into the corridor and was forced to hurry for the lift when the lift's sole occupant, a harassed-looking clerk, his arms full of folders and files, failed to reach the "hold" button. Bond endeavoured to quell his abused stomach during the lift's rapid ascent to the ninth floor, and as the doors opened his ears were assaulted by an unusually busy clattering from the Communications Section. He greeted Moneypenny, who wrinkled her nose in response.

"What is that smell?"

"I call it Eau de Cordite," smiled Bond. "Speaking of exclusive perfumes, Penny, can you recommend a suitably odorous _parfum_ for a present?"

"That depends whether it's for a preliminary skirmish or an all-out assault."

Bond laughed. "Neither, actually. It's just that – "

An irritated buzzing sound escaped from the intercom on Moneypenny's desk.

"Is 007 here yet, Miss Moneypenny?"

"He's just arrived, sir."

"Send him in."

Bond glanced at the red light over the padded door as he entered the room that he hoped would whisk him away from dreary London days. He sat down opposite M and discreetly stretched his aching muscles. M sat motionless, staring blankly through the large window overlooking Regent's Park. The only sound to be heard was from M's fingers beating out a tattoo on the arms of his chair. Bond knew the mood: storm warning ahead. The large head, framed with silver hair, turned to face Bond and levelled two gunmetal grey eyes at him.

"Tell me what you know about the Hungaro-Balkan escape routes." No preliminaries, no pleasantries. Not even an address by his code number. Bond took a moment to organise his thoughts and was alarmed to find he didn't have many thoughts to organise.

"Hungary is probably the best option, if one stays away from the towns. In rural areas parts of the Iron Curtain are more like a chain link fence. As long as one avoids the border patrols it's possible to get through with a good pair of bolt-cutters."

"Anything else?"

"Well, sir, the real problem is the oldest barrier in Eastern Europe - the Danube. The travels restrictions are so harsh that it can be more difficult to move through the country concerned than it is to sneak or bluff your way across the Western border. The Danube is an unofficial second line of defence through most of the Eastern Bloc, and because it forms a natural barrier it's often far better defended, in both directions, than the Curtain itself. Whether one chooses to go in a straight line from Budapest to Vienna or via smaller towns such as Baja, crossing the river is a big problem. It's best done at night, of course, but swimming is usually out of the question because the rip currents will drag most people under. And in winter hypothermia will claim most swimmers before they get halfway anyway. It's impossible to defend fully such a long border – building a Danube Wall would likely bankrupt the USSR – but most of the major crossing points are heavily manned, often with gun towers, barbed wire and even minefields at the more sensitive points. Another factor is the length of time it takes to cross. Anyone who manages to cross the border in Berlin can use the Wall itself for shelter. A sprint for freedom and a scramble up a ladder and you're home free. But cross the Danube, whether by boat or hot air balloon," – M did not return Bond's smile – "and you're a sitting duck. Even if the authorities take their time in realising an escape is on, they still have an open field of fire into the riverbanks on the other side. And if one should cross unnoticed there's still the small matter of travelling anything from fifty to two hundred miles to reach the true border."

"So what would you recommend to a would-be escapee?" The grey eyes gazed implacably across the large desk. Bond was floundering as badly as any of the desperate souls who risked swimming the Danube.

"I'd call it off, sir. Too risky. Better to travel south-east through Yugoslavia where the country is rougher – there are lots more crossing points and Tito is more easy-going than his Soviet cousins – then, all being well, south towards Albania and try to cross the Adriatic to Italy."

M opened a drawer, retrieved a folder and slapped it on the desk. "That is your tick and code number against the docket, I presume? I need barely mention the ticked and initialled distribution slip."

The buff folder, titled (rather pompously, thought Bond) _Mainline No.3: A Hapsburgian escape route, _lay innocently on the desk, as deadly as any poor card in a high-stakes game of baccarat. He could do nothing but nod his guilt.

"Then next time," fumed M, "make damn well sure you've read what's inside. The Ministry doesn't pay your wages so that you can swan in here and put your feet up. Everything that lands in your in-tray might contain information vital to the successful conclusion of an operation. The last thing this department needs is an overgrown schoolboy moping about the office because he can't be bothered to do his blasted homework. Is that understood?"

M did not expect an answer. Bond could not give him one. The last few weeks had passed in a haze of nicotine and alcohol brought on by Bond's boredom at having nothing to do; there had been too many mornings recently when his furred tongue and bloodshot eyes had taken precedent over the morning paperwork. But M rarely swore. Bond knew he must be desperately worried about something; the old man really had ants in his pants.

The rebuke over, M began to stuff tobacco into his pipe and motioned that Bond could indulge himself. Bond tried to hide the relief with which he lit up a Morlands and sat forward to listen to the real reason for his summons. His chief dropped a spent match in his copper ashtray.

"Read the F.T. lately?"

Bond shook his head. In his line of work it didn't make sense to invest long-term in anything, and the only short-term ventures he liked were those brokered by Lady Luck. Money was there to be spent and that was that.

"Well, you're missing out. Some of those Foreign Desk wallahs should be working for us. We've noticed a lot of similar stories cropping up. It seems that someone is trying to upset the country's financial stability. Nothing too important or noticeable – the odd British company being undercut in a bidding war, convenient dealings on the stock market – nothing too confrontational, but it's still death by a thousand cuts. I spoke to the editor this morning and he agrees that there is a deliberate campaign being waged against Great Britain. He's scared stiff that some of the other newspapers will eventually join the dots and spark a financial panic. The Prime Minister tells me that we can't afford a run on the pound."

"What has it to do with us, sir?"

"Everything. It pains me to say it, but the Service is suffering from low-level leaks. Not only that, but they're persistent – and recently there's been a steady increase in compromised operations. I've had reports that some surveillance operations are failing because the target has suddenly become suspicious – last-minute cancellation of appointments, a change in rendezvous, that sort of thing. But it's not just us. This morning the First Sea Lord blew a gasket when he found out that half a dozen Russian fishing smacks were ready and waiting to observe a hush-hush NATO war game off Belize."

"Have we any leads in the matter?" asked Bond, trying not to reveal his growing excitement.

"The latest suspicious dealings occurred in the Metal Exchange, where British Petroleum lost out on a favourable deal thanks to some unforeseen and lively fluctuations in the Portuguese exchange rate. Station L hasn't sent London anything useful – which may be part of the problem."

"You suspect a leak there?"

"That's the devil of the matter. I don't know what to believe. The absolutely random nature of the information makes it impossible to discern a pattern, a common factor – a key of some sort. The Home Office have asked Five to look into things in the City. We're going to look after the other end."

For the first time in months, it seemed to Bond, the welcome rush of adrenalin began to pump through his nervous system. His cigarette tasted better; he could pick out the dust motes near the window floating through the weak London light; the room's wood panelling seemed richer, more vibrant somehow. Bond even welcomed the assault from M's pipe tobacco as his chief leaned towards him.

"This is serious, 007. The more measures we take to protect the Service, the Armed Forces and the Square Mile, the more resources we use and the more we risk leaks. It's a vicious circle and one we have to break." M sucked determinedly on the wet stem of his pipe. "Reminds me of the feeling I used to get on the North Atlantic convoys. Everyone knew a wolfpack was out there under the waves, waiting and watching. We'd do double watches through the night and a U-Boat would still get through and send hundreds of men to the bottom. Couldn't do anything until we had a radar fix." M levelled his piercing grey eyes across the desk at Bond. "Get a fix on this leak, 007. Your flight leaves for Lisbon in three hours. Moneypenny's made the arrangements."

M tossed another file across the desk to Bond. "This is a recap of the security leaks and a dossier on Station L. And make sure you read this more closely than the other files you've been given. I can always add yet more P.T. to your schedule."

Bond watched his chief pull another thick file out of his in-tray. The grey-haired head bent low over the desk. The interview was over. So, the old bastard had arranged this morning's torture on purpose! Bond strode out of the room, embarrassed, angry at M and glad to be out of it.


	10. Chapter 3 - Any Storm in a Port

ANY STORM IN A PORT

It was early evening by the time the taxi had rattled to the Halcyon Hotel, and shopkeepers were already starting to bring in their wares from the pavements. The receptionist apologised profusely, but the hotel's lift was out of order – most tiresome, Senhor Chivers, but the only available room is on the fifth floor – and Bond was irritated to discover that he was breathing hard by the time he and the bellboy reached the door of his room. He tipped the boy handsomely, for one never knew when a discreet errand might be required, rang room service and ordered Bacalhau à Brás, reasoning that in a strange hotel it was best to order something straightforward. His request for a carafe of iced sangria was borne of the summer evening's intense heat.

The stifling room's one nod to its past glories was a rather fine Biedermeier full-length mirror that had somehow made its way from the salons of Vienna. Bond stood before it. The man who stared back at him wore a light tropical worsted suit and a sky-blue double weave shirt. A pale yellow silk tie hung beneath the beginnings of a five o'clock shadow. There was a damp edge where the collar met Bond's neck. Two cold blue eyes peered sullenly from beneath the fringe of jet-black hair, where one loose lock dangled low. Bond stepped closer to the mirror and poked his tongue between the thin, cruel lips. Furred. Not good enough. Bond grudgingly admitted that M had a point. In a sudden burst of guilt-fuelled enthusiasm he stripped off and started a series of strenuous physical jerks, at the end of which he held positions until his muscles screamed for mercy. He padded across the thick carpet to the small bathroom and endured five minutes of a scalding hot shower, followed by an ice-cold shower for as long as he could bear it.

After throwing on a black silk dressing gown and gently pulling open the twin French windows to breathe in the warm evening air, Bond was glad to hear a knock at the door. He slipped his Walther PPK out of its secret home in his black briefcase, and held it nonchalantly in the right pocket of his dressing gown. Bond opened the door quickly, making sure that he followed the edge of the door as it swung back so that only his head was visible to the waiter. The momentarily startled waiter was relieved to see the gentleman smile and motion towards the tiny table on the balcony. With the dexterity seemingly enjoyed by all members of his profession, the waiter balanced his heavy tray on one hand, produced a large handkerchief with the other, and whipped dust from the table and chair. With a murmured "Aprecíe" and a quick smile as he pocketed Bond's large tip, the waiter left as quickly as he came. Bond poured himself a glass of sangria and took a long pull. The salted cod with onions, egg and potatoes was full-blooded and Bond gave in to his hunger. The five floors from ground level translated the roar of rush-hour traffic into a pleasant murmur, with the occasional car horn sounding in comical counterpoint. Black silhouettes of pigeons wheeled in front of him and settled on the nearby rooftops, enjoying the last of the evening sun. Bond lit a cigarette, poured another glass of the hotel's excellent sangria and enjoyed the special glow known to all travellers who have just enjoyed their first meal after arriving in a favourite city. Bond leaned back in his chair and heard a shout from below. Leaning over the balcony, he saw a couple of teenagers arguing at the street corner. The girl stood aloof, arms folded across her breast, pretending not to hear the young man who, arms open wide, implored her to listen to reason. It seemed to Bond that every lovers' tiff always followed the same pattern: accusation, denial, declaration, and a passionate, lingering rapprochement. Bond smiled. He knew from experience it was easy to pick up people on the streets of Lisbon, whether desired or not.

Sated by the meal, Bond thought of Garbo and grinned slyly, remembering his luck in the spring of 1942. He could still remember the stab of fear he had felt the first time their paths crossed. Bond had stationed himself at a café table across the street from the pretty pink and white German embassy, and was supposedly reading the _Diário de Notícias_while the camera secreted in the heavy holdall wedged between his feet recorded everyone who passed through the building's heavy oak doors. With any luck the silent Kodak might snap a member of the Portuguese government or a newly arrived attaché from Berlin. He had been concentrating so hard that it was some time before he noticed the little man looking at him from two tables away. Bond had glanced twice at his observer, and gained an impression of a closely trimmed beard and spectacles before picking up his holdall and walking swiftly away. He couldn't tell if he was being tailed but all the same hailed a taxi and took a tour of the capital, constantly looking through the rear window to make sure no one was following. The return to his room in the Rua das Janelas Verdes had coincided with the unpleasant discovery that there really was such a thing as a cold sweat.

The second time Bond had seen the man it had been almost too late. He had attempted to make a letter drop at the city's zoo so a contact inside the British embassy could pick up his photographs of German nationals and return them to Britain in the embassy's diplomatic bag. On the way to the zoo's Estufa Fria he had stopped, ostensibly to look at the colourful display of azulejos in the window of a guild showroom, but in reality practising the techniques drummed into him at SOE Group B's finishing school in Beaulieu. The reflection in the window showed a ghostly bespectacled figure standing on the other side of the road. Bond's skin crawled at the realisation that he had been compromised. He endured a nightmarish hour swapping taxis, changing trams and rushing across oncoming traffic in a bid to shake off any possible tails. Back at the hotel, Bond changed rooms, wedged a chair under the doorknob and, his hand on the Beretta under his pillow, spent a sleepless night.

The small hours of the morning were spent thinking over his situation. He couldn't leave Lisbon. He had a job to do. His decision made, Bond slept soundly until dawn. The next morning he gently pushed aside his bedroom curtain and saw his bespectacled escort lurking at a street corner, his eyes darting up towards the green shutters of Bond's old second-floor room. Bond took the lift to the hotel basement, sneaked out through the laundry room and emerged around the side of the hotel. Yes, there he was, pacing the pavement on the pavement opposite. Bond stood in the deep shadow of the hotel's tradesmen's' entrance and waited. An hour later he still hadn't spotted any accomplices or any recurring bystanders; it seemed his tail was working alone. At last the man shrugged his shoulders and headed down the street. This time it was Bond's turn to stalk his prey, and he relished the opportunity. The little man had a short, stuttering stride and Bond easily kept pace with him on the busy pavements. He evaluated his opponent. About five foot six, narrow shoulders. There was no tell-tale bulge at the base of the spine or under the armpits, so a gun seemed out of the question. Perhaps his man preferred a stiletto. In any case, he would have to act swiftly. Bond looked up the street for a suitable spot to make his move. About a hundred yards ahead there was a kink in the road where it climbed sharply, the overhanging buildings casting the pavement in deep gloom. Bond walked quickly past the man, using passers-by to shield him from view. He gradually slowed down, letting the other pedestrians pass him on either side until he could hear the stuttering footsteps right behind him. Bond span around, walked directly into the man and pushed his Beretta into the man's stomach. He ushered the little man into a dark, narrow alley. Bond frisked him for weapons, found none, and fished out a battered passport that identified his companion as Juan Pujol, of the República Española. He was relieved that the man seemed frightened. It would give him an advantage.

"Why are you following me?"

"Thank God! You are with the Allies. Tell me you are with the Allies, for God's sake or I shall go mad!"

"I'll ask once more. Why are you following me?"

"Because I need to contact the Allies. You are English, yes?"

"What makes you say I'm English?"

"No one but an Englishman sits with one foot resting upon the knee. No one but an Englishman could look so carefree in wartime."

Bond saw the bright eyes, the sweat shining on Pujol's forehead. The little man seemed genuinely scared but also excited. Something in the man's pleas, his impassioned expression, told Bond that this man, this Pujol, could be trusted. He released his grip on the Spaniard's jacket lapel.

"Scottish, actually, but I'll let it pass. What do you want?"

"I want to help. I have something to show you back at my flat."

"Alright, lead the way. But try anything funny and this will be a short romance."

"Not to worry, señor. I am no danger to you. You come to my apartment, yes?"

The apartment turned out to be a dingy bedsit near the docks. Pujol had to shoo away a trio of mewling tabbies before he could open the peeling front door of his room. Bond saw a large, sagging double bed, a washbasin and a tiny stove. A single dirty window looked out onto a yard crisscrossed with lines of laundry. Ships called to each other in mournful tones. Bond refused the offer of a drink and sat on the only chair. Pujol perched on the edge of the bed and held out his hands in supplication, obviously nervous.

"Please don't be alarmed when I tell you this – I am an Abwehr agent." Pujol held out his hands to placate an alarmed Bond, who had risen from his chair in alarm.

"No, everything is fine, I promise," cooed Pujol. "You are right to be suspicious. So was German Intelligence in Madrid. I tried and tried, don't you see, to contact the British - but they called me a fantasist." The little man punched the bedspread in frustration. "No one would believe that I was a patriotic Spaniard who hated all Fascist regimes. So I did the only thing I could – I went over to the Germans and offered to spy for them. I told them a," Pujol smiled, "a how do you say, a cock and the bull story, that I was a loyal Franco official who would be travelling to England on business. They were doubtful until I said I wanted to do my Fascist duty in England as well as Spain. And then," Pujol spread his hands in a magnanimous gesture, "it was all I could do not to laugh when they offered to fund and train me for my sacred duty to the Fatherland. They trained me in spying tricks and now think I am in England instead of here. I have built a network of enemy agents who supply the Germans with vital information from all over Great Britain."

Pujol reached under the bed, dragged out a heavy suitcase and heaved it onto the bed with a groan. The mattress's springs creaked in sympathy. He looked at Bond with a mischievous grin on his lips and then opened the case with a flourish. Bond walked slowly over to the bed, leaned uncertainly over the suitcase, looked at the contents and started to chuckle. Pujol began to giggle as well and soon the room echoed to their raucous laughter. It was the nervous, relieved laughter of two men who have been under tremendous pressure and it served as a kind of exorcism, expiating their fears and worries. Bond reached into the suitcase and retrieved dog-eared copies of _The Blue Guide to England_ and _Jane's Fighting Ships_. Pujol piled on the bed old copies of _Tatler_, _Punch_, _Country Life_, and _The Field_.

"And this is your network?" smiled Bond.

"My complete roster of sub-agents risking life and limb for the glory of the Third Reich. The magazines I stole from the Public Library. I was about to give up until I saw you but, as you British say, it was third time lucky. The Germans are very grateful for any information I can give them. Last week I sent a report supposedly from Glasgow telling my German controller that I had found men there who would do anything for a litre of wine!"

"You did what? My friend, you know nothing about the drinking habits of the average Glaswegian."

Pujol's smile vanished. "You mean I was wrong in what I told them?"

"You couldn't be more wrong if you said that Franco dances the foxtrot before breakfast."

Bond watched Pujol dab his face with a handkerchief. The little Spaniard had been incredibly brave and incredibly lucky. Bond's head rang with possibilities. If Pujol really had convinced the German High Command that he had a network of agents in Great Britain it might be the best double-bluff of the war.

"I think it's about time you got some more authentic information from your agents, don't you?"

Pujol had wrung his hands in relief. And so began one of the deftest espionage operations in history. After informing London of the situation, Bond had been pulled off the wolfram investigation and ordered to run Pujol as a double agent. On a mischievous whim, he named Pujol as "GARBO" because he couldn't think of a more unlikely codename for the bearded, bespectacled man from Barcelona. A happy month or so had passed in which he helped Pujol to concoct letters from "contacts" spread far and wide. Bond had enjoyed fleshing out the life of an imaginary secret agent, or "the cardboard booby" as he waggishly dubbed Pujol, until it was time to smuggle the little Spaniard back to London. Once there, MI5 had used him to run Operation Fortitude, the massive deception that helped Overlord, the invasion of Europe, to succeed in the summer of '44.

Bond had heard nothing more of Pujol until years later when, one idle afternoon in high summer, he had succumbed to curiosity and requested GARBO's war record from Archives. He was glad to learn that Juan was living peacefully in Caracas, apparently unappreciated and unknown. But the impish Spaniard had kept one last joke for Bond on the last page of his dossier: a footnote recorded that a grateful Führer had awarded Pujol the Iron Cross in recognition of his "extraordinary services" to the German people.

A fluttering of wings disturbed Bond's memories and he looked up to see a particularly bold pigeon strutting along the balcony edge. Its gait was awkward, and Bond saw that it had lost a leg, probably to one of the many cats that thrived in Lisbon. Bond thought of Felix Leiter, and then guiltily acknowledged that his friend would not thank him for the comparison. If Felix were here no doubt he would drag Bond off to spend the night among the nightclubs and drinking dens. Well, not tonight. He had an early start in the morning. Bond threw the pigeon some scraps and wished it well. We were all young pigeons once.


	11. Chp 4 - Angels' Breasts & Belly-Busters

ANGELS' BREASTS AND BELLY-BUSTERS

Bond stretched his legs under the table, lit the tenth Morlands of the morning, ordered an espresso from the hovering waiter, and settled in for a long wait. His position at the pavement café afforded him a view opposite the entrance to a dimly lit side street in the heart of the business district. He watched a wiry cat emerge through the café doors and begin to stretch its way through a daily regimen of feline yoga. The cat announced the end of its exertions with a yawn and snuggled up in the shade of the café's gently swelling green and gold awning. Only a cocked ear revealed that it was tracking the movements of the waiter as he jigged and weaved from table to table, threatening at any moment to deliver a few scraps to the pavement. Bond smiled. It was still the Lisbon he remembered. True, there were more cars on the road than before, but trams still toiled up and down the city's seven hills and fountains still burbled happily in the middle of sunny plazas. Only his target had changed. Where once the German embassy had claimed his attention, now an altogether more modest location tied him to a café table. Bond knew that halfway down the quiet street, well away from any passing trade, an inquisitive businessman might find a narrow doorway and a dusty doorbell. Here, Station L whispered its presence to the world via a tiny brass plate bearing the legend _Universal Exports (Iberia)_. No matter how long the businessman or itinerant salesman might press the doorbell button no answer would come, for the electric bell's wire ended abruptly on the other side of the door.

Today was Bond's third day of surveillance, and with each day he had become less and less impressed with the Secret Service's Portuguese HQ. From the personnel file he knew that the station, like all Lisbon, was operating on a skeleton crew because of the time of year, but that did not excuse the lack of spycraft he had seen. The two remaining staff members always kept to the same routes to and from the small office on the first floor. Neither followed each other in order to check for tails. Bond could set his watch by their arrival and departure times. It was not unknown for a sense of ennui to descend upon station staff living in a pleasant part of the world where not much was happening, but this was more serious: Station L was slack.

Bond glanced at his watch. Any second now. And yes, here she was! Punctually at five to nine, the first member of Station L rounded the corner. The rather pretty girl who was always first to arrive and last to leave wore her coal-black hair in a long ponytail bound by a red ribbon. Bond felt a childish urge to tug her ponytail and a rather more adult yearning to run his fingers through her luxurious mane. Elsa Bartoli's figure was slim, athletic, and promised much. Her progress along the pavement was that of a catwalk model, the hips afloat on the swell caused by her habit, gleaned no doubt from the pages of Vogue and Life, of placing one slim foot directly in front of the other. A rather racy red leather handbag swung carelessly from one hand. She looked for all the world as though she might break out into a game of hopscotch at any moment. Bond particularly appreciated the coquettish smile she flashed each morning at the nearby grocer. She was still young, rather naïve and had not yet woken up to the fact that espionage was a dirty, dangerous business at the best of times.

He watched her disappear behind the closing front door, and Bond wondered, not for the first time, how on earth women managed to walk in stilettos – not that he was complaining. He lit another cigarette and reflected that her colleague knew all too well what business he was in. Twenty minutes later, a complaining car horn alerted Bond to Daniel Price's daily game of Grandmother's Footsteps with Lisbon's many taxis. One of these days an irate driver would surely mow down the unsteady figure, but Price didn't seem to care. It seemed to Bond that Price was a man who had stopped caring about anything except the half-bottle of spirits nestled in his jacket pocket. Middle-aged, surely coming to the end of active duty, Bond could see that Price was rotting from the inside out. The broad shoulders and loose gait were a reminder of a formerly powerful and athletic man, but what was once muscle had slowly run to fat, and only a good tailor had managed to keep this a secret to most.

The rest of the morning measured itself in espressos and cigarettes. Bond scanned his newspaper from cover to cover, practising his meagre and very rusty Portuguese. Eventually the traffic thinned, and the city began to slumber in the heat of the midday sun. Bond saw the girl leave for lunch, and in response he stubbed out his cigarette and ambled across the road and up to the shaded doorway. He quickly reached into his trouser pocket, took out a narrow strip of thin cardboard and pin-tacked it over the lock so that about three inches of paper protruded over the edge of the door. Bond took a second to check his handiwork and then retreated to inspect the wares displayed at the greengrocer's stall. Just as the grocer was beginning to show signs of impatience with his customer's apparent indecision, heavy footsteps rang out on the pavement nearby and Bond turned to see Price stepping out for a liquid lunch. The office door swung to with a bang, but this time slightly muffled.

Bond bought a pineapple from the grocer. He walked to the seemingly locked door and in one swift movement pushed it open, ripped off the paper strip and shut the door behind him. This time the lock closed properly and the door's security circuit closed. A thin ringing sound stopped abruptly: the office alarm. Bond grimaced. A fat lot of good that was if there was no one to hear it. What a bloody shambles! Bond gently exhaled and leaned back against the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark staircase in front of him. As soon as he could see clearly, he crept up the stairs, automatically placing his feet on the extreme left and right of the steps. An open door (Price again, thought Bond) led to a large, empty room lined with filing cabinets and some tired-looking desks and chairs. The room was anonymous and, apart from a hat-stand, a water cooler and a broom leaning rather forlornly against one of the desks, held no hint of the occupants' business. Dusty windows gave a dim view of the empty street. Bond left the pineapple on top of a filing cabinet, where it looked the liveliest thing in the room. A quick ransack of the desk drawers and filing cabinets revealed nothing untoward. Bond tried the door to the glass partition at the rear of the room, only to find it was locked. At least they hadn't been so lax as to leave the safe and scrambler in an unlocked room.

Bond dragged a chair to the window and positioned himself so that he had a clear view of the pavement. Time dragged and Bond became increasingly impatient. Too many cigarettes, too much coffee, and too much waiting for something to happen had made him fractious. Nothing pointed to a leak at Station L, but the deserted, dusty office explained why no useful information had come from Lisbon. Well, if he was going to act as a glorified Morale Officer he was damn well going to enjoy it. A few minutes later, he saw Price and Bartoli returning together along the pavement on the other side of the road. He returned the chair to its desk, picked up the pineapple and stood to one side of the door. The whine of the alarm sounded and died. Bond felt the office shake slightly as Price slammed the front door. The stairs creaked to two sets of footsteps.

"You know, Daniel, you really shouldn't leave the office unattended. It's against procedure."

"Not to worry. It's only for a few minutes and I'm sure the desks can look after themselves."

"Even so, I do think we should be more careful."

Bond, flattened against the wall, allowed the couple to wander in. Price ambled across the room with his hands in his pockets, while Elsa tossed her handbag onto the nearest desk. Both still had their backs to him. Bond's explosive cough rang out like a gunshot. Price and Bartoli span round in shock. Bond threw the pineapple to Price, who caught it and stood dumbfounded. Bond raised both his hands and pointed a finger and thumb at them both.

"Bang, bang. You're both dead – from the neck up, anyway." Bond looked contemptuously at Price. "You're lucky that's a real pineapple and not the other sort."

A flash of movement to Bond's left caught his eye. He swivelled to face Bartoli as she hooked up the broom with one foot, caught it in mid-air and advanced on him. He casually waved away the broom handle and was surprised when the stick crashed onto his forearm, numbing his left hand. Bartoli pressed on, jabbing her weapon perilously near his throat. Bond bargained with the pain and whipped out his Walther, levelling it at her head. The girl stood there, panting, her hazelnut eyes wide open in excitement, the snub nose touchingly resolute above the parted red lips. It took some effort to tear his gaze from his lovely assailant and look once more at the third person in the room. Price had not moved, and he still held the pineapple in his outstretched arms, like a shop-worn cousin of the grocer in the street outside. Bond noted the sweat-soaked salt and pepper hair plastered across a broad forehead, and then with dismay catalogued the red eyes, the crumpled suit, and the uneven stubble strewn over the double chin. If ever he got like that Bond hoped M would have the good sense to take him behind the stables and do the decent thing.

"It's alright, it's alright. I'm with the firm." Bond shook his arm in an attempt to restore the circulation to his hand. "Look, I'm sorry to have shocked you like that, but to be honest you bloody well needed it. If London saw the way you run this station they'd have a fit."

The girl gradually lowered the broomstick, colour slowly returning to her cheeks.

"Who did you say you were?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"I didn't. Contact London and say 'Export figures improving.'" The reply will be 'Carry on the good work.'"

Bartoli looked at Price, who nodded without taking his eyes from Bond. She walked quickly to the glass partition and unlocked the door. Bond holstered his gun and perused the shapely silhouette behind the smoked glass. The pineapple hit Bond squarely in the chest and he turned, jolted, to see that Price had smoothly drawn a gun and was pointing it at his head. The gun was a cut-down Saturday Night Special – old-fashioned but effective.

"A bit late now, don't you think?"

Price did not reply. There was a hint of diamond in his gaze. Bond tried to defuse the situation.

"Mind if I smoke?"

"Yes."

Bond looked at the older man with mixed feelings. He was a physical wreck, but there were still the remnants of a tough customer beneath the years of neglect. Unlike most people who held a gun, Price remained calm. Calm gunmen were always the dangerous ones.

Bartoli returned, a glint of respect in her eyes. "London says he's 007, on special assignment. We're to give him every assistance."

Price's eyebrows rose in surprise and he slipped the gun back into his jacket. "Really? I haven't met a Double-O in years." Anger, embarrassment and resentment simmered in the air. "Daniel Price, Station Head." He held out a hand and Bond felt the clammy grip of the dedicated drinker.

"James Bond."

Bond held out a hand towards Bartoli, whose downcast expression told of her shame at the manner of their meeting, and in response felt the brush of cool, delicate fingers.

"And you must be Elsa Bartoli," smiled Bond. She inclined her head in acknowledgement. The room fell silent. Bond decided to ease the tension. He picked up the pineapple lying at his feet and placed it gently on the desk before him.

"It's a hot afternoon. If you have any soda we could stop playing rugby with this and put it to better use."

"We may have some left," replied Elsa, looking at Price. "I'll need to wash some glasses." She retreated behind the glass partition. Price took out a wicked-looking knife and began to cut the pineapple with some force, evidently taking out his embarrassment and anger on the nearest thing to hand.

"How'd you do it?" he murmured, without looking up.

"Strip of card over the lock."

"And when I left for lunch the card stopped the lock from closing." Price wiped his forehead. "Lord, that trick came in with the Ark. Are you going to tell London?" Both men knew that Price had committed a heinous offence in leaving the Station unsupervised. Dereliction of one's post could have severe repercussions. Men had been jailed for less.

"Not if you start doing your job properly and tell me all you know about this Portuguese leak."

"Of course. Don't blame the girl. She's still learning the ropes."

"She should know better. It would help if you could set a professional example." Price nodded in agreement as Elsa returned with a tray of glasses and a soda siphon. Bond was effusive in his thanks and tried to calm her nerves. When the three of them were comfortable, Bond asked Elsa about the British Embassy in Lisbon.

"We know there's a flap on but we can't see anything out of the ordinary," she said, clutching her hands on her lap. "It's been nothing but the usual round of British Council meetings, trade delegations and diplomatic drinks parties."

Price swirled his glass with a practised air. "I've checked out everyone of importance and it all seems above board. I tried to look at the other end of it as well – had a chat with a few contacts here in Lisbon and the Porto Stock Exchange about who might jump the gun on the exchange rates. They all agreed no one would be brave enough to do so under the gentle gaze of Salazar's Estado Novo. There are plenty of generals with time on their hands who would welcome a witch-hunt."

Bond sighed. "Then there's nothing for it but to check every single personnel file again. Perhaps we're missing something." He stared at the row of filing cabinets with loathing. M had wanted him to pay more attention to paperwork and it seemed he was about to get his wish. The rest of the day passed in a welter of passport photos, employment records and confidential evaluation profiles. The office was full of long shadows by the time Bond called a halt to what had been a fruitless search. After arranging with his now-dutiful colleagues the recall of two of the holidaying Station staff, and finalising a surveillance rota for the British embassy, a tired Bond left for his hotel, dispirited with the day's events.

Three days later, he was beginning to think his mission was a waste of time. He had quickly tired of watching various civil servants scurry back and forth from the large building on Rua de Sao Bernardo; that particular corner of a foreign field that was forever England had revealed nothing despite the hours of close surveillance. On the second evening Bond thought he had struck oil when a senior secretary's wife loitered amongst the pine trees in a secluded park, only to be disappointed when he saw her tryst with the embassy's young Entertainments Officer, a man who was obviously devoted to his job. Apart from that one incident everything seemed to be above board. There was no point in contacting London until he had something concrete to report.

It was a frustrated Bond who took the air in an early evening stroll through Lapa, the diplomatic quarter of Lisbon, where sedate mansions lined the broad avenues. Waves of starlings rippled across the purple sashes of sky visible between the stuccoed buildings. Almost unconsciously, he had drifted to where the Russian Embassy sat sentinel at one corner of a busy crossroads. In front of a lush open lawn (a very practical killing field, reflected Bond) stood a double row of railings that, topped with revolving spikes, presented a needlessly aggressive face to the outside world. The rush hour crowd had thinned out, allowing Bond to hear the rattle and clatter of a tram before it appeared from behind the embassy. The tram's wheels squealed in protest as it approached a tight corner. The pantograph powering the tram skipped off the overhead wires with a bang. A high-pitched whine died and the yolk-and-egg-white liveried tram stopped abruptly. The driver wearily climbed down from his cabin and retrieved a long pole clamped to the tram's side. Some boys gathered at the street corner with Bond and began to laugh and whistle at the driver. The driver smiled and playfully waved the pole in the boys' direction. Evidently this was not unusual. Bond watched fascinated as the driver hooked the fallen pantograph and carefully placed it back on the live wire. A few seconds later the tram's bell rang out joyfully and the tram sped on its way under the web of wires.

The crowd of boys and onlookers broke up, leaving Bond staring upwards at the latticework of wires, behind which he could see the black tips of powerful antennae poking just above the ornate cornice of the embassy. Tucked under the edge of the roof was a small square of light. The dirty window of frosted glass seemed out of character with the rest of the neo-classical building. He looked up at the surrounding buildings and noticed a flaking billboard near the top of a dowdy office building. _Escritório para a venda_.

Bond found a telephone kiosk nearby and quickly dialled the number on the advertisement. His luck was in. One phone call later a cheerful and probably relieved letting agent showed Bond into the fourth floor office. Senhor Penso said it was lucky that Bond had called just then, for the office was in demand. Bond sniffed the stale air and noted the thick dust on the solitary desk and chair. The sash window had evidently not been opened in a long time. He wrenched open the window, the distant sound of the traffic below floating in with the warm evening air. He looked out at the embassy across the street. The building was a crisp eight-iron away. Yes, it could work.

"I'll take it."

"Ah, very good, Senhor Chivers! I think you have done well to secure this office before any other interested parties."

"Indeed. I'll send my assistant tomorrow to sort out the terms and make arrangements."

They shook hands on the pavement outside and Bond watched the secretly cock-a-hoop letting agent scuttle away. Price could deal with him tomorrow morning. It would keep him sober and out of the way for the moment. Bond was frustrated and wanted results. There were times when one had to make things happen, instead of kicking one's heels and hoping for the best. He walked back to the Halcyon, his shadow hanging behind him as though reluctant to approach the blood-red sunset.

One of Bond's personal rules was never to trust a thin chef, a policy that had stood him in good stead on many a solitary evening in a strange town. He had chosen to lunch at the Pastelaria Suiça the next day because it had lean waiters, a sleek maitre d', and a plump chef. All promised swift, unobtrusive service, and Bond was especially pleased when a waiter slipping through the kitchen's swing doors afforded him a glimpse of a corpulent, solemn chef bent in concentration over his work. He ordered Sopa Fria de Melão, followed by Polvo stewed in red wine. He sat back, enjoying the little tableau of pavement diners happily ensconced under a flapping green valance on the corner of the mosaic-laden Rossio. Now a vibrant meeting place, the former Roman Hippodrome was busy with criss-crossing workers on their way to lunch. Bond recalled Pujol had once regaled him with stories of how the square had once accommodated two of the more bloodthirsty Iberian traditions: bullfighting and the torching of heretics.

His ears pricked at a now familiar tapping sound clearly audible over the toot and growl of passing traffic. Elsa arrived, skipping between the searingly white tablecloths with an aplomb that drew admiring glances from customers and waiters alike. She was dressed head to toe in white, from her headscarf to white dress to her white shoes, the whole ensemble bisected by a wide black belt. Bond thought she looked adorable. His cold melon soup arrived, and Bond asked her what she wanted to eat. She refused his offer of lunch, confessing that she was on a diet.

Bond chuckled. "I'll do the decent thing and say that you don't need to lose weight."

"One can never be too thin," said Elsa, though Bond could see she was pleased with his compliment. Over the last few days she had started to relax in his company.

"I'm busy with this rather good soup, so you'll have to do all the talking. How did you get into this game?"

"My parents suffered during Salazar's rise to power – my father was a journalist who thought it best to retire to the family home in Porto. An elderly aunt in England took me in and sent me to Cheltenham Ladies' College. I was studying Modern Languages at Newnham when a don asked me if I'd like to repay my debt to society." They both smiled at the habitual euphemism of the recruiting officer. "I came home in the hope that I might in a small way help to unseat Salazar. It's nothing personal, though I have no love for him. I hate all dictators as a matter of principle." She looked distracted. "If Daniel is going to be late I might as well have some coffee and a slice of cake."

"I thought you were on a diet?"

"I have a sweet tooth."

"You won't have any teeth if you eat rubbish and drink coffee all day. You'll end up as a wrinkled old hag hawking lavender on street corners."

Elsa laughed. "I'll have you know that Lisbon's pastries are full of vitamins. They form an essential part of a balanced diet." She caught the attention of a nearby waiter and ordered a coffee, hesitating over what else to order.

"I can never choose which cake to have," she said, her eyes narrowed. "They are all too delicious."

"I recommend an angel's breast. They melt on the tongue."

Elsa's eyes widened and Bond saw a faint stirring in her cheek. "You beast, you've been to Lisbon before! Well, just for that, I'm going to have a nun's belly – and don't you dare try to make a joke of it."

"Pax." Bond held up his hands as a peace gesture. At the same time the strum of a guitar brought their attention to a young couple, dressed in black, who had arrived unannounced on one side of the pavement terrace. With an enthusiastic shout from the guitarist, the couple began to whirl sticks in front of them, each parrying and thrusting to the guitarist's enthusiastic accompaniment. Their movement was balletic, dazzling to the eye. Bond watched, enthralled by the display.

"That was some pretty nifty work with the broomstick," he whispered. "My first thought was that you must be a witch." Elsa laughed. "Then I realised you knew what you were doing."

"But a stick isn't much use against a bullet." Elsa pursed her lips at the whirling couple, who were now drawing impromptu applause from onlookers. "My father came from the north, the homeland of Jogo do pau. Here it is no longer a fight but a dance. Papa said the only dancing he would ever do was with Mama."

Bond was relieved to find that the chef had used a decent red wine to stew his octopus. He listened with interest as Elsa explained the dancers' sinuous movements, and gave a large tip to the sweating guitarist who toured the tables after the dancers had left to a large round of applause. To finish, he ordered vanilla ice cream and a glass of El Candalo's PX Cream Sherry. Elsa watched with amusement as he drizzled half the glass's contents over the ice cream. Bond noticed her interest.

"I recommend it - vanilla sets off Almacenista single soleras perfectly." He held out a spoonful and looked her in the eye. She smiled and, to his disappointment, took the spoon from him before swallowing the ice-cream. Bond pinched a spoon from a nearby table and they shared the dessert, Elsa laughing when he deliberately scooped the last mouthful.

The waiter had cleared their table and Bond was about to call for the bill when he saw Price emerge from under the horseshoe arches of Rossio station. There was a sour tang of alcohol from Price's crumpled clothes. After ascertaining that Bond and Elsa required nothing he ordered a gin and tonic, his enunciation overly precise. Bond knew the pattern. In the short time he had spent in Price's company, Bond had never seen him drink anything but vodka, gin or sparkling water. Nothing too heavy, nothing to bring a bloom to the cheeks or nose. He suspected Price's wine of choice would be a white Rioja, perhaps a Muscadet or, further north, a Gewurztraminer.

"Sorry I'm late," smiled Price after his first sip. "I had to haggle over the rent, otherwise it would look as though we'd pay any amount for the rooms. And, this being Lisbon, after negotiating a fair price I had to grease a few palms to hurry through the paperwork. Good people, though."

Bond wondered how many drinks it had taken to seal the transaction. "What equipment do you have?" he muttered.

Price blew out his cheeks. "The standard Station kit, perhaps a few spares left over from the war. Might have to blow the dust off it."

"Belly-buster?"

"Should still have one. Mind letting me know why you want it?"

"Time's getting on, and we've got nowhere. We don't know where the leak came from – it could be anyone on the embassy staff, it could be someone else entirely – but it's a good bet it went via the Russian Embassy. Whether there's a contact on the Russian staff or whether the building was used to relay a message securely doesn't matter. The answer lies there."

Price shook his head. "You're grasping at straws. There's no way you can be certain it's the Russians."

"Who else, then?"

"The Chinese, the Arabs, Mossad – even ex-Nazis holed out in South America. Could be any number of countries that hold a grudge. That's the thing about ruling an empire – you're never short of enemies."

"The Chinese are more concerned with Japan and Indo-China, our Gestapo friends don't have the wherewithal, the Arabs are too busy carving up the Middle East and Mossad wants to keep in America's good books. As far as I can see Russia is the only country that has the clout and the motive for disrupting Britain's finances."

Price gave Bond a sour look. "Have it your way. Alright then, what's the plan?"

"There's a small window right at the top of the building. The glass is frosted and there's usually a light on late at night."

"Communications?"

"That's what I thought. The light means the room is continually manned. It's near the rooftop aerials in case they have a technical problem."

Price rolled his eyes. "Ah, so that's your game," he said into his raised glass. He upended his drink, the ice mounting against his lips. "I've seen the view from the office. Getting across won't be easy."

"There's no other way. A directional microphone could work but there's no way of training it upon the window from a close distance."

"Where do I come into all this?" asked Elsa, impatiently.

"There's a phone box on the corner of the square," replied Bond. "I need you as a spotter from the other side of the building in case a goon shows up. Remember to unscrew the light bulb."

Elsa nodded. Bond was glad that she accepted orders unquestioningly. Away from Price's corrosive influence she had the makings of a good operative.

Price ordered another drink and seemed to cheer up. "Well, I still think it's a damn fool scheme. But it should be fun. I haven't stretched my legs for a while."

Bond frowned. "Elsa, would you be a dear and see if we've had any recent signals from London?"

"But I checked them an hour ago. The next signal isn't due until 1700."

"Nevertheless." Bond's manner brooked no disagreement. Elsa took the hint. She got up and smiled nervously.

"I'll expect you at the office later?"

Bond nodded, his attention already elsewhere. Price waved an airy goodbye. The two men unconsciously entered the silent fraternity that signs up every male who watches a pretty girl walk away. A waiter's arrival with Price's drink broke the spell. Bond waited until he had drained half his glass. They both knew something was up. Price had the nervous habit of running a finger along a shallow scar that had carved a route across his right eyebrow, and now his hand started to saw back and forth. Bond opened his mouth to speak but was surprised to hear Price interrupting him.

"You're not about to propose marriage. Get on with it."

"All right then. You're riding pillion tonight. You'll help with the preparation but you're not coming with me."

"Now look, I'm not taking a back-seat role for anyone. And as Station Head I have the authority."

"Not in a field operation you don't. Take it up with London if you're not happy – but you'll get the same answer."

Price leaned forward, his voice low. "Listen, Bond, I was running agents out of Moscow when Uncle Joe was still happily slaughtering his way to the Kremlin. Just because I'm out of practise doesn't mean I can't handle the rough stuff. And while I'm at it, your prefix number doesn't make you infallible. This rooftop stunt is based on supposition, a rough guess at best. Perhaps I'm not as fit as I used to be, but I've given a lot to the Service in my time. Listen to an old soldier - tell M that you don't have anything to go on and call it off."

"I have nothing to go on because you've crawled inside a bottle and refused to come out."

Price's face reddened, accentuating the white glow of the notch in his eyebrow. "There are other types of addiction, Bond. Never forget that you're just one man with a gun. You're not a miracle worker."

"Thanks for the sermon. You're a liability, Price. I'm not risking my neck with an old soak. Go home, sleep it off and be at the office at eight tonight. If you turn up drunk I'll personally see to it that your pension is revoked."

Price finished his drink and placed the glass on the table with a drunkard's exaggerated care. He leaned forward with a resigned smile and murmured, "You know, once upon a time I would have had your guts for garters for a remark like that."

"Spare me the fairy stories. Just be there and be sober." Bond couldn't shake the memory of Price holding the pineapple. There was no place for drunken tremors on a night operation.


	12. Chapter 5 - Pop goes the Weasel

POP GOES THE WEASEL

From his position on the balcony of the newly rented office, Bond could see the flat roof of the Russian embassy. Aerials poked up here and there like the last remaining bristles on an old hairbrush. In the centre of the roof stood a rough block housing an access door. Though guards regularly patrolled the embassy grounds, none had thus far visited the roof; Bond prayed they would stick to their routine. The street, four stories below, was almost clear of traffic. Bond watched the last tram of the evening clatter past, the pantograph sparks flashing blue in the increasing gloom. He knew that Elsa was waiting quietly in a darkened phone-box on the other side of the embassy square. Behind him, he could hear Price readying the equipment needed for the night's work. The Head of Station L had arrived clear-headed and on time; the difference in his demeanour was tangible. Showered, clean-shaven and motivated, Price looked younger and more alert. Bond was impressed by Price's no-nonsense manner; there was a pleasing sureness to his movements and his hands ran over the mini-mortar with an easy familiarity. Price slowly cranked the device's heavy spring catapult, having argued successfully that the mortar's explosive bolts would be too noisy to use. Bond's uniform for the evening consisted of black denims and a dark long-sleeved shirt. He turned away from the balcony, flexing his toes in a newly purchased pair of rubber-soled shoes and felt the weight of the rucksack snugly secured between his shoulders.

Price, breathing heavily, nodded that the catapult was ready. "Right, let's go through this one more time," he panted, standing up and kneading the small of his back. "I may have to make out a report on this little lark and I probably missed one or two details earlier today. If there's a problem I'll give three flashes on the torch - but once you're dangling over the side of the embassy you're on your own. Tell me again - why can't we use a directional microphone instead of you having to risk your neck?"

"It's impossible to get line of sight close enough to the window for us to hear anything. We have to use a direct link."

"And once you've completed your little jaunt and planted the device – assuming you haven't tripped any alarms or bumped into any guards – how do you propose to get back?"

"I'll use the hand grips to climb back along the rope."

Price frowned. "That's uphill and must be all of a hundred and thirty yards. You'll be tired and terribly exposed."

"I'll manage," said Bond, tugging the straps on his rucksack. "Let's move before you change my mind, shall we?"

"Hang on, Bond. What are you going to do about the line and grappling hook once you've returned? You can't leave them hanging there."

"We'll attach the other end of the line to a lead weight and this time fire for the far side of the roof. Most of the wire will end up on the roof and will hopefully be mistaken for a cable. We'll have to hope that the grappling hook won't be discovered for a while."

"I don't know. There's too much luck involved."

"Can you think of anything better?"

Price shook his head. "Not at such short notice."

"That's settled then." Bond picked up a slim, black metal tube from a nearby desk and carefully examined it. The radio microphone had to work perfectly or the whole mission would be a waste of time.

Price looked interested. "Looks like CIA issue."

"It is. We managed to 'borrow' one on a joint mission. Q Branch has improved the penetrative range."

Price took the microphone from Bond, gently span him round by the shoulders, and put it in the rucksack. "I wish they would do the same for me," he said ruefully. Bond laughed, grateful that the older man was trying to take his mind off what was to come. Price knelt once more and slid a steel grappling hook down the mortar's tube. Only the prongs of the hook were bare – India rubber covered the rest of the hook to lessen the noise of impact.

"I've set it at forty degrees for a low trajectory." Price gave a knowing smile. "You do realise if the hook falls short and the line hits the tram wires we'll have over 600 volts saying hello to us?"

"I've been meaning to work on my tan," replied Bond, squinting down the mortar's sights. He aimed for the left hand corner of the building, away from the aerials. In the far corner of the square he could make out the black silhouettes of pine trees swaying slightly in the skittish evening breeze. Bond adjusted the mortar a fraction and felt the first prickle of sweat on his skin. He took one last look along the sight and then pulled the firing lever. The mortar rattled like a box of marbles and a second later Bond caught sight of a black shooting star fizz out across the tram wires. The hook bounced twice on the embassy's gravelled roof and skidded to a halt a yard short of an aerial. Bond reeled in the wire hand over hand, working fast to take up the slack. As the curve of the wire straightened he slowed down and gently reeled in the hook until it disappeared behind the cornice. If the hook failed to take, it would be a disaster. The wire tautened and Bond blew out his cheeks in relief.

"Your luck's in," whispered Price, who secured the line to an iron stanchion he had found in the office's tiny lavatory. Bond clipped two handgrips to the rope and then nervously ran his hands over his trouser and shirt pockets, checking to see if he had forgotten any minor detail. His gun was a reassuring presence at his hip. Price joined him at the window and the two men stood silent for a moment. A sliver of moon crested a wave of clouds and washed the square in a weak grey light. The embassy stood foursquare, a black cube of malevolence on what was an otherwise pleasant summer evening. Bond was surprised to see Price proffer a hand.

"Good luck." They shook hands. Price's grip was firm and dry.

"Thanks for your help. About what I said earlier – "

Price shook his head. "It needed saying."

Bond nodded but said nothing, his mouth suddenly dry at the prospect facing him. The embassy roof was over a hundred yards away and beneath him was the now invisible web of tram wires. Was he doing the right thing after all? Price stood waiting silently, as though he knew the man next to him was having second thoughts. _To hell with it._ Bond perched on the window ledge, grabbed the grips hanging above him and shoved off. He kept his feet together and felt the air brush his face as he gathered speed. He was over the road now, past the wickedly spiked boundary fence, there was a quick flash of dark green below his feet and then the forbidding mass of the embassy loomed large. At the last second Bond squeezed the handgrips to slow down, raised his legs and felt the soles of his feet slap against the building. For a second he hung in the air, checking his body for any injuries, and then planted a foot in the elaborate egg and dart moulding of the cornice. A moment later he was over and crouching on the roof.

Bond saw now that the roof of the embassy was a mass of cables, like a carpet of roots trailing from the forest of antennae. It was a miracle that the grappling hook hadn't snagged a cable. He picked his way carefully between the aerials and sidled up to the central block, using it as a guide to make his way to the other side of the roof. Once past it, he crouched low and crept up to the building's edge. He judged the distance from the corner of the building to his current position to be about fifteen feet. The window should be below him. He loosened a coil of rope from his belt and felt the sharp prongs of the mini grappling hook at the end of it. Bond quietly wedged the hook under the stone balustrade and tugged hard, testing its grip. Running the rope through his fingers, he leaned backwards over the balustrade and gingerly descended, padding his way down the building a few feet at a time, constantly peeking though and around his legs to peer at the darkened wall beneath him. A stone pilaster provided a guide for his right shoulder, and Bond was just giving thanks for the cover it provided when his left foot grazed the top of a stone window frame. Nature's alarm bell, a thudding heartbeat, sounded in his ears - but thankfully no other sound. By swinging gently on the rope, he manoeuvred his way left and gratefully placed both feet on the extreme right of the ledge. He looked down and saw a white arc of light below his feet. There was no way of knowing if a radio operator was sitting right next to the glass, so placing a microphone directly on the window was out of the question. Any shadow falling on the glass would be a dead giveaway.

With infinite care, Bond reached behind him and retrieved the belly-buster from its harness. The hand-cranked audio drill had been aptly named by those agents unfortunate enough to require a silent drill for covert operations. Bond affixed a masonry bit to the chuck of the drill and braced himself between the top of the window and the pilaster to his right. He held the broad, flat base of the drill firmly against his stomach and placed the point of the drill bit in the gap between two of the wall's stone slabs. Offering a silent prayer to Q Branch, he slowly cranked the handle. The bit took a moment to gain purchase, and Bond checked that the debris was falling to one side of the window. The drill squeaked as it burrowed through the stone, forcing him to slow to reduce the noise. After only a few minutes, Bond's stomach ached cruelly and his clothes were soaked in sweat. The stone was proving infuriatingly durable. He held a pair of headphones to his ear and placed the microphone in the shallow hole. Nothing. He swapped the blunted masonry bit for another, conscious all the time of guards walking below him.

The occasional car sped past in the distance, but to Bond it was as the distant buzz of a fly. The world seemed to narrow to the point of the steel bit slowly grating its way through the stone. His stomach would be bruised black in the morning. _The wheel of surveillance grindeth exceeding slow_, thought Bond. Every few minutes he slipped the microphone into the drilled hole, praying that he would be able to hear something, and every few minutes a gentle hiss was his only reward. A Benzedrine tablet gave him new energy. The glowing green hands of his watch told him that two hours had passed already. The second drill bit had now given up the ghost, and Bond replaced it with his last sharp bit, well aware that he had drilled almost fourteen inches and that he could drill no more than a foot and a half. Another ten minutes of incessant grinding came and went. Bond's stomach had mercifully passed the point of pain and was now numb. He wondered if he would be able to stand up straight once he had finished. Again, he placed the microphone in the hole and again he heard nothing. Wait. Yes, there was something! Almost too low to pick up, Bond heard a subterranean murmuring. It was unclear, but it was definitely someone speaking. Bond slipped the headphones over both his ears and pressed the microphone firmly to the back of the hole. Despite the sweat stinging his eyes, Bond grinned and thought he had never heard anything so beautiful, so glorious, as the tinny, guttural Slavic tones of the Russian Embassy staff member on the other side of the wall.

" _- the usual signals, sir, and a request to update the staff roster."_

"_These blasted bureaucrats. Looks like you're going to have to waste your time encoding what they already know. Anything else?"_

"_Not really, just that Centrale has verified Decima's information."_

"_Well, that's something anyway, but I'd like to - "_

Bond felt a tickling sensation on his nose and his eyes jerked upwards, past a stream of dislodged brickdust, into the face of an embassy guard peering over the cornice. The guard silently mouthed instructions. The headphones! Bond cursed his own stupidity. He slowly removed the headphones, and this time the guard gestured with the barrel of his machinegun that Bond was to come up. Bond's mind raced and he considered the possibilities. Could he abseil down quickly enough to avoid a bullet through the top of the head? Unlikely. There was not enough time to reach the Walther nestling uselessly in his waist holster. Bond looked down and around in despair. He would have to come up. With a sigh of resignation, he grabbed the rope and looked up at the guard, only to see distant stars dotting the night sky. The guard had disappeared. What was he playing at? A large silhouette broached Bond's horizon, and he gasped. Price! The Head of Station L leaned nonchalantly on the cornice, holding his stubby gun by the barrel.

"Going my way?" he whispered, thrusting out a hand. Bond scrambled up the rope and allowed Price to drag him onto the roof. He tried to stand up, but bent double in pain as his stomach muscles cramped. The guard lay prone at his feet, a nasty bruise swelling above one eye. Bond acknowledged his thanks with a smile, but as he gathered in the wire and mini-hook a corner of his mind wondered why his right hand felt sticky. Price jammed his gun in his waistband and bent down to Bond's level. The sleeves of his shirt were ragged and torn.

"Elsa spotted something moving and rang the office phone. I saw this goon and, well, here I am," he whispered.

In the moonlight Bond realised why his hand was sticky: Price's palms were black with blood. He had slid down the wire using only his shirtsleeves for protection - the pain must be terrible. Price was breathing heavily. It had taken a huge effort for him to get to the roof and approach the guard silently.

"Get anything?" panted Price.

"Maybe. I don't know." The operation was a bust, and both men knew the roof of a foreign embassy was not the place for a debriefing. Bond watched Price remove the magazine from the guard's Kalashnikov and slip it between the grill of the roof drain. Price winked.

"I'd take it as a memento but it's too heavy," he murmured. They scampered to the thin parabola that was their escape route. Price turned to Bond and gestured for him to go first. Bond stayed back.

"You have the gen. Move!" urged Price. His face shone with sweat. Price was right. Bond had the information vital to the operation. But the older man had risked his life and Bond wanted him out of danger.

"No," hissed Bond. "You go first – it's uphill and you'll need the grips. I'll climb hand over hand." He smiled. "And the drinks are on me."

"You can't afford me," replied Price, grinning savagely. Bond recognised in him a comrade-in-arms, someone who was revitalised by the whiff of danger. He watched Price wince as the big man carefully placed his fingers around the two handgrips. With a nod to Bond, Price leaned out over the roof's edge and stepped off. The grappling hook creaked slightly and Bond watched with concern as the wire's curvature deepened as Price made his way across the chasm. Price's technique was good, but his burned hands and poor fitness meant that conquering the uphill gradient would be murderously tough. Bond felt the sweat on the back of his neck cool - at least the night's breeze was in Price's favour. Despite the pressing need to leave the embassy he dared not risk both their lives by traversing the wire before Price reached the sanctuary of the remote-looking office balcony. Instead he concentrated on breathing steadily and tried to ignore the crippling pain flooding his torso.

Bond willed on Price's efforts. He had found a rhythm and was making good progress, though the second half of the journey would be the hardest. The breeze on the back of Bond's neck dropped abruptly. He jerked around just in time to glimpse a black shape glint in the pale moonlight before the hurled machine-gun dealt him a stunning blow on the temple. As he sat dazed on the roof it seemed to Bond that the entire world had fallen silent. He dimly recognised the man with the bruised face who was now approaching him like a villain from one of the flickering silent movies his aunt had taken him to see several lifetimes ago. Bond laughed as his mind tried to make sense of the pain coursing through his body, and he giggled again while he stared at the ornate white frame that swam before him. The frame displayed a line of meandering letters that gradually coalesced into something that Bond's concussed mind could decipher – a simple message in capital letters: "THE GUARD!"

Instinct, driven by fear, took over. Bond tried to force his fingers to quick-draw his Walther but everything had taken on a dream-like quality, and his arm felt tremendously heavy. The guard seemed to be striding through deep water towards him, though Bond vaguely realised he must be sprinting for his life. Bond struggled to raise his gun-arm through the thick air. At last the barrel of his gun drew level with his assailant but a lethargic boot kicked it from his grasp, and he watched the weapon tumble slowly across the night sky and then disappear over the building's edge like a lazy raindrop. Bond rose unsteadily to his feet, staggered sideways a few yards and stumbled to his knees once more. He turned to face his attacker. The sole of the guard's boot filled his vision and all went black.

_Thump. Thump._ Why, Bond wondered, wouldn't the blacksmith stop hitting that anvil? He was trying to sleep. _Thump. Thump._ Didn't these people ever stop? Bond forced open a swollen eye and watched the hammer hit the anvil once more. _Thump._ His other eye blinked awake and this time Bond recognised the hammer as it swung into view; it was the heavy boot belonging to the Russian guard, and its owner was busy kicking and stamping at the grappling hook. With a thrill of fear, Bond heard one of the prongs snap off as the hook scraped along the cornice. As though climbing a sheer wall, Bond somehow managed to roll onto his aching stomach and crawl along the roof to reach the edge. The anvil rang out once more and Bond heard another metallic scrape accompanied by the frenzied breathing of the Russian guard. Dreading what he might see, Bond hauled himself up to the cornice and rested his chin on the cold stone.

Price was barely halfway back, his body jerking with each effort to drive his handgrips along the wire. Unable to look behind him, he must have surely felt each blow at the grappling hook, each shudder adding to the knowledge that death gnawed at his lifeline. Bond tried desperately to think. The roof still swung drunkenly from side to side. He couldn't trust his aim with a throwing-knife. There was another awful creak from the hook and an almost comical "twang" from the complaining wire. Bond sprawled desperately, uselessly against the cornice, and he experienced a fresh stab of pain as the mini-hook jabbed into his hip. The hook! His thick, clumsy fingers groped to retrieve the mechanism. Precious seconds were lost while he strived to press the unlocking pin. Bond felt the hook jar in his hand as the three sharp hooks sprang out. He took aim and realised with a sickening feeling that he was too late. Bond's shout of dismay rang clear as the guard delivered one more vicious blow, and the remains of the hook sprang away into the night.

Price swung straight onto the tram wires. A blinding flash illuminated the surrounding buildings in monochrome like a photographic negative. An infernal buzzing rent the night air, and then a charred lump fell to the street amid a shower of sparks. Every streetlight shorted out, the road disappearing as though a black curtain had fallen across it.

Snarling, Bond stiff-armed the hook in the direction of the exultant guard. It looped over his left shoulder and Bond fell back, using his weight to jerk the line as hard as possible. The guard screamed as the barbs scraped and caught the side of his neck. With a cry of anguish and rage, Bond swung the off-balance man over the edge of the building and felt the rope surge through his fingers. A gurgling scream faded into the night and was abruptly silenced when the hooked prize jerked at the end of the line. Bond was jammed against the cornice once more and felt the rope tighten around his waist. Fighting waves of nausea, he grabbed a knife from his arm-sheath and cut the rope. The sudden relaxation of pressure unleashed a ring of pain around Bond's ribs and he retched, his forearms shaking with the strain as he knelt on all fours.

Bond tilted his head and let the cool air waft over his sweat-drenched face. His senses began to sharpen once more, driven by an acute sense of danger. He stood up and concentrated on getting air into his lungs. Far-off shouts prompted him to scan below for movement in the embassy grounds. Two armed guards had discovered their comrade. A light flashed from far away: Elsa. She was signalling with a torch. Bond waved her away. She couldn't help him now; no one could.

The rest of the square was a dark moat without a drawbridge. Bond took stock: he had one knife, a penlight, about sixty feet of rope and precious little else. He checked the guard's abandoned machine-gun, still sticky with Bond's blood. The action was smashed, and Bond tossed the gun aside with a curse. He was trapped like the proverbial fly in a bottle, and now a crabbing fear accompanied his aching stomach muscles and throbbing head. At night the embassy would have a skeleton staff – but most of them would be intelligence operatives. He would be entering a darkened, unfamiliar building containing God knew how many people waiting to put a bullet through him. He also had no idea how to get out of the building and across the street to safety, and if he didn't die in the attempt he would meet people only too eager to whisk him across Europe to Moscow's welcoming arms. _Christ. _The poison of panic threatened to overwhelm Bond, and he momentarily thought of surrendering and taking his chances with the embassy staff in the hope of making a later escape. It was a fantasy born of desperation. He fought to regain control of himself and held on tight to another strong emotion: his abundance of fury at Price's death. All right then, he would use that fury to fuel his energy and determination. Bond tightened his grip on the knife. He would take his chances. Every last one of them.

He approached the open door in the middle of the central block and saw steps etched in the moonlight. They probably led straight down to the Communications Office – and that meant someone was nearby. The rough stone steps disappeared into a black maw. Bond grimly reasoned that anyone standing at the bottom would have shot him by now. Leaning against the wall to present a narrow target, he quietly descended into the dark, forcing his eyes wide open to adjust to the poor light as quickly as possible. At length he could make out a wire-encased bulb almost flush with the ceiling. The power cut had affected the embassy too. There wouldn't be much time before power was restored; the building was sure to have an internal generator for use in time of war.

Bond stretched out a hand and felt his way along a rough concrete wall until it ended abruptly: a corner. He waited, ears straining for the slightest sound. Nothing. A quick glimpse showed light seeping under a door about six feet along a dark corridor. Bond sidled to the door. His penlight illuminated a sign in heavy Cyrillic: _Сообщение_. Communications. He crept past and then thought better of it. Perhaps he could salvage something from the mess after all. He gently turned the cold doorknob. Locked. At the same time Bond heard a muffled stream of panicky Russian. He knew the voice; his friend the signals operator was no doubt following procedure in securing his bolthole – doubtless it was purely a happy coincidence that this meant not risking his neck. The voice carried on talking, but this time Bond heard the rattle of a telephone receiver lifting off its hook. If anyone were at the other end of the line they would soon be hurtling upstairs. Bond strode along the dark passageway, using the penlight to guide him until he came to a heavy oak door, which he pushed open without ceremony. A broad, thickly carpeted corridor studded with ornate lamps and oil paintings announced the start of the embassy proper. At least the carpet would soften his footsteps.

He had tiptoed only a few yards when a door opened ahead and to his left, sending a shaft of moonlight into the gloom. From it emerged a barefoot man dressed in vest and trousers, his braces hanging loose, who peered into the darkness. The man yawned and began to walk down the corridor, away from Bond, who guessed that he was probably one of the daytime staff awoken by the electrical flash. Bond heard a click and a grunt as the man tried a useless wall switch. He quietly sheathed his knife. He had no wish to kill in cold blood – but he wasn't going to pussyfoot around. Bond crept up behind his target and grabbed the man's left arm in an "Arm Lock Come-along", ramming his captive up against a wall. With the rigid edge of his right hand he chopped the back of the inviting nape and eased the slack body to the floor. Chalk one up to the Commandoes.

He continued his exploration of the corridor, all the time calibrating the delicate balance of speed versus caution. Bond froze. Someone was waiting in the dark. His torch flashed over an unmistakable profile. Bond swore under his breath as he recognised the face: Vladimir Ilyich to the life. The rather fine porphyry bust of Lenin kept lookout at the corner of a massive marble staircase that wound down into the dark. Bond's grim smile perished at the sound of distant footfalls approaching from below. He leaned over the thick stone banister and saw three torch beams circling like spokes in a wheel. The signal operator must have got through. Every instinct screamed: _get out, get out!_ Bond hurriedly hitched the remains of his rope around the banister and wrapped the other end around his chest. His sweaty palms struggled to grip the pronounced cranium of Mother Russia's spiritual leader. Heady on adrenalin and benzedrine, Bond almost laughed out loud as he realised he was going to play a new form of Russian roulette. With a silent prayer, he unceremoniously chucked the bust down the staircase and jumped over the banister into the void. A tremendous banging rang around the stair shaft as the heavy lump of marble rolled and bounced down the steps. Bond heard a yell and dimly realised that Lenin had levelled one of his torch-bearing acolytes. He was free falling blindly – there was a surreal glimpse of a moon-washed portrait of Stalin – and then the rope snapped taut and Bond knew nothing but pain. The rope ripped out of his palms and he tumbled and rolled across a bare tiled floor, coming to rest on his back. Far away, lights strafed a huge chandelier directly above him. The guards had continued to the fourth floor. He had bought some time and now he had to spend it. A nearby shadowy doorway beckoned and Bond half-crawled, half-tumbled through it and down three steps onto a rough stone floor. The penlight showed a low curved brick ceiling. A cellar? In the dark Bond had misjudged the floors. Reflecting that he had been lucky not to be smeared all over the staircase, he slipped his knife from its sheath and explored his surroundings.

A row of dusty port barrels lined both sides of the ancient cellar. Bond's light illuminated a dark green metallic monster squatting in a corner near the stairs. A maker's plate proclaimed _Pratt & Whitney. Made in Glasgow._ The generator. He would have company sooner rather than later. Bond trotted to the end of the cellar in the vain hope that a service door might lead upwards to the outside world and away from the nightmarish maze he had entered. Footsteps pattered close by. Bond snapped off his penlight and ducked behind the nearest barrel just before a torch shone in the doorway like a miniature sun. His ears told him that he was now one of a pair. His nostrils filled with the musty smell of oak and wax; at his shoulder were rows of black jewels, vintage ports reclining gracefully in their twilight years. Bond licked his dry, cracked lips. So near, yet so far!

The cellar resounded to a rapid, annoyed clicking of another dead light switch, in tandem with what sounded like a stream of extremely vulgar Russian. Bond heard a metallic clank and scraping. The low ceiling above him was thrown into deep relief, and he guessed that the guard had carefully placed his torch on the generator's control panel. He inched upwards until his eyes were just above the dark barrel. Before him was a scene from an Old Master – a hulking figure bent in supplication, the whole illuminated by the single torch that cast inky shadows from its perch atop the hateful machine. With a gun in one hand, the burly guard began to pump a hand crank to energise the starter motor. Bond evaluated the situation. He was still too groggy to throw his knife with any certainty. It was too far to rush his opponent – even a jaded guard would drop him before he got halfway. When faced with a gunman, the defenceless man enters a binary relationship: with a gun he is One; unarmed, he is Zero.

Bond knew the game was up; his luck was all played out. He could hear the death rattle of the little white ball bounce and settle in the green slot numbered (what else?) zero. There remained only to hear the whispered "Pas de credit, monsieur. Désolé," and the inevitable would follow – the gentle pressure under the elbow to lead the bankrupt member between the tired _huissiers_ and newly arrived cleaners, out and away to contemplate a ruined existence in the bleak light of early morning. Any second now the generator would flood the building with light and he would have had it. The House wins. Désolé indeed.

The arc of light flickered. The guard stopped pumping and swore softly. There was a second flicker and the splash of white light turned brown. Bond silently cheered on the failing torch battery. Die, you bastard, die! The torch's owner picked up the light and shook it into further exertion. The bulb burned once more, brighter than before, and then expired. A further curse, this time vehement, sounded from the dark. Lady Luck had palmed Bond a card. Reaching to his left, he eased a heavy bottle from its resting place. He heard the unmistakable rattle of a box of matches. Bond readied himself, his knife in one hand, the bottle in the other. A match rasped into life and the guard's ghoul-like face floated in the murk. Bond hurled the bottle at the guard, missed, and rolled to his right across the cellar floor. The guard dropped the match in shock and the room vanished once more. Absolute silence reigned. Neither man could move for fear of betraying his location. Many moons ago, Bond had hunted lobsters and black sea-eggs in one of the few bays on Jamaica's North Shore suitable for snorkelling. A careless poke with his three-pronged spear had startled a dozing squid and plunged him into a cloying inky cloud. He had nearly drowned while trying to work out which way was up. The cellar was almost as bad – at least the floor was steady beneath his feet – but this particular bay housed something much more dangerous than a startled squid.

It was a stand-off. Seconds passed during which Bond seemed to hear his opponent creep behind him, beside him, around him. The fatal blow might come from any angle. Nightmarish forms loomed out of the darkness, and Bond almost shouted his fear. A coppery taste between his lips brought him back to himself. Blood. He wasn't dead yet, dammit! Let the other man stew. His patience was rewarded with two deafening gunshots, white flowers crumpling in the gloom, the blotches staining his retinas. Bond felt bullets pass overhead. Left and right, both high. What was that noise? A sour smell drifted around him. One of the barrels must have taken a hit. Port was gushing out and the floor would soon be sticky with it. Bond knew his foe's colleagues would arrive soon; the deadly _pas de deux_ had to end now. There was a crunching sound to his left – as instinct took over Bond realised the guard had trodden in the remains of the shattered bottle – and Bond span and charged. By the time he had taken three paces, he had twice slashed with his knife and hit nothing. His target was a vital, lethal yard further away than ideal, and he had already slowed in alarm when at the last moment the two men bumped into each other.

A supernova exploded near Bond's left shoulder as the gun discharged, giving him a stark close-up of a snarling monster, low of brow and out for blood. He felt the hot gunpowder sear his neck and, by chance rather than judgement, grabbed the hot gun barrel. Ignoring the pain from his burning palm, Bond forced his fingers to translate the gunmetal braille and managed to jam his little finger behind the trigger. A huge hand clamped down on Bond's knife-arm and dug in, and he gasped at the monstrous strength of his enemy. His fingers went numb and the knife slipped from his grasp. Bond kicked out blindly, and the two men banged against a barrel and fell to the ground in a heap, the gun skittering across the wet stone floor into oblivion.

The two men battered each other blindly using the time-honoured arsenal of the desperate: feet, knees, elbows, fists and forehead. Each man tightened his grip on the other, drawing nearer in an attempt to gain a decisive advantage. Bond had once gazed on the mating ball of a python – had seen the act of love transformed into a death grip – and now, on the rough stones of the cellar, his opponent coiled as close as any lover. The guard's hot breath and gnashing teeth edged towards Bond's straining neck in an obscenely intimate nuzzle. Bond heard the voice of the ogre who lived in another basement. _Soft tissue, Mr Bond, sir. Eyes and balls._ His fingers scrabbled in the darkness, climbing over the guard's belt buckle towards his target, where he clenched as hard as he could. He heard a distinct 'pop' and a shriek of pain. The Russian's grip loosened, and Bond swung his forearm at the yell. There came a gurgling, choking sound not so very different from that of the ruptured port barrel. He must have crushed the man's Adam's apple into his windpipe. Bond rolled away in shock and fear, his aching ribs coming to rest painfully on top of a small, unyielding object. Too exhausted to move, he lay listening to the dying man's heels drum on the floor. The cellar door swung open to reveal the blinding silhouette of a man framed in the doorway. The guard saw Bond, hair spiked with blood and port, chest heaving under his sodden clothes, rise from the mess like some primordial creature and raise an accusing hand. The hand looked misshapen, elongated; only when it seemed to burst did he realise that the creature had fired a bullet at his heart.

Bond took the second guard's torch, ripped out a bundle of wires from the generator and tottered out of the cellar without much of an idea of what to do next. He looked around the stairwell in something close to despair, and at the last moment spotted a door hidden in the darkness under the staircase. The after-effects of Benzedrine were a terrible fatigue and emotional low; added to the fear and exertion of the night's work, it was all Bond could do to aim himself at the door and hope to God that no-one saw him. It took him three attempts to grab the doorknob. He found himself looking up at narrow stone steps hemmed in by whitewashed walls: a service staircase. He slumped on the iron banister bolted to the wall and pushed himself up the stairs to a door on the ground floor landing. Locked. Again. The stairs twisted ever upwards. It seemed to Bond that he had known nothing all his life but stairs, endless, winding stairs that led to nothing but more stairs. He found himself facing another door without knowing how he had got there. Must have blacked out. Fatigue clawed at him and threatened to pull him down the hungry steps waiting below his unsteady feet.

He placed both hands on the door and leaned forward like a sleepwalker. Mercifully, it gave way and he slunk in. His torch illuminated ghostly armchairs, a large desk, lampshades, tall red curtains hanging on two walls – the room was an empty set waiting for the next act. Bond turned unsteadily. He had come through a false bookcase door. He was in a corner office, and an important one judging by the well-appointed furnishings. A prism of colours flashed from a nearby side table, and Bond almost sobbed in relief. The decanter sparkled and flared in the torch's wavering beam. Bond swigged the brandy straight from the decanter, not caring that his raw throat protested at the sudden influx of strong alcohol. He caught his breath and felt a wondrous warmth seep through his body. His legs steadied. Another swig, and Bond noted in passing that the diplomat whose office he had borrowed had provided just the one glass. Taking one last mouthful to toast the unknowingly generous miser, Bond hurried to the tall windows, thankful for the thick carpet that muted his movements.

Standing well to one side, Bond gently drew back one of the heavy velour curtains. A crowd had formed at the ornate main gates, a growing circle of sensation-seekers grouped around what was left of Price. Two men bearing pistols stood inside the gates, scanning the crowd for accomplices. Bond hoped that Elsa had had the good sense to stay out of sight. A bone-white ambulance, its absurd little klaxon clamouring to be noticed, forced the crowd to part. All attention was split between the grisly tableau on the road and the two ambulance men who busily squeezed their way through the ghoulish onlookers.

The entire building was now in an uproar. Bond could hear muffled yelling. Doors slammed like distant gunfire. Footsteps paced quickly overhead. He moved quickly to the far window away from the commotion outside. This side of the building was closer to the side street. Bond eased open the windows and crouched forwards onto a large balcony. The first birdcall of the morning mingled with the hubbub at the embassy gates. Weak dawn light glimmered on the spiked rolls of the fence a few yards below, its waiting iron teeth just far enough away to pin any frantic escapee like a despairing butterfly. Bond backed into the room and wrenched the heavy velour curtains from the window. He frenziedly tied a large knot in one end, bundled the curtains in his arms and hopped onto the balcony wall. In his haste he almost overbalanced, and consequently spent a nasty second wobbling on the edge. He unravelled the curtain, took aim and flung the carpet, knot-first, towards the railings. The knotted end fell over the other side of the fence and dragged the rest of the carpet across the top, where it spread like a bloodstain over a yard or so of the now neutered spikes. Bond gingerly made his way back to the embassy wall and gathered himself. This was going to hurt like hell. Well, win or lose, he was going via the red carpet.

A door crashed open close by and Bond heard shouts from inside the room. Go! He sprinted along the narrow balcony wall and leapt for dear life, folding his body into a tight ball. There was a splash of red, a jarring blow and Bond heard the whir of the spikes as they threw him hard across the pavement into the gutter. Years later, Elsa was at his side hissing, "Please, James! Get up!"

Somehow Bond got to his feet and the two of them lurched over the road and around the nearest corner. Over Bond's shoulder Elsa saw a policeman approaching from across the street.

"Come on, darling, let's get you home," called Elsa, giving a knowing smile to the nearing policeman.

"Good girl," whispered Bond. "She's a good girl, senor," he bawled at the policeman, who had no wish to enter the cloud of port fumes surrounding Bond for any longer than necessary. With a curt order to Elsa he turned on his heels and returned to help the departing ambulance force its way through the crowd.

Bond didn't clearly recall how he found himself lying on a sofa and didn't really care. It was enough that they were safe and that Elsa was bandaging his hands. His watch told him that, incredibly, it was not yet four in the morning. The room was sparsely decorated with Austerity furniture, a few potted plants and a reproduction Degas above the dormant fireplace. Elsa followed his gaze.

"My pay won't stretch to Lalique or Wedgwood, I'm afraid." Bond liked the simple décor and said so. Elsa gave him a reproachful look. "The taxi driver won't thank you for redecorating his car. It was a miracle finding one in the first place, and after your display he threw us out three streets away."

Bond stroked her hair. "Poor Elsa. I'll make it up to you."

"Hardly likely. Now I'm going to have a shower. There's some chicken salad and some beer on the kitchen table." She pushed him back down to the sofa as Bond tried to sit up. She smiled. "I shower alone."

Bond watched her disappear through a bead curtain with muted regret. Truth be told, he ached so much he was almost glad Elsa had turned him down. With more effort than he would have liked he reached for the phone from the nearby coffee table.

"Hallo, operator? Universal Export, please." Bond listened to ghostly whistles and clicks as the phone line forged across Europe to a still sleepy London.

"Universal Export, how may I help you?" The voice was distant and non-committal. Probably a tired operative coming to the end of an untroubled night shift, surmised Bond. A background hum told him that a monitoring device was in use. Good. He wouldn't have to repeat himself.

"Morning, this is the Portuguese rep. The line is bad. This is the seventh time I've tried to ring you tonight." Bond hoped the London contact would understand that Bond was using an open line. "Sorry to ring you at this hour, but I thought you should know that consignment 214 is no longer in stock."

"How did that happen?" said the contact, the tone now crisp and businesslike.

Bond swallowed. "I'm afraid our Eastern European competitors damaged the goods. I made a serious complaint and received two apologies. But I may have come up with a new advertising slogan."

"Understood. Can we contact you at this number?" Bond recited the number on the telephone dial and replaced the receiver. He seated himself at the tiny kitchen table, opened a lukewarm bottle of Sagres and swore long and loud.

About 800 miles to the north, the now wide-awake Front Desk would contact Operations. "007 says 214 has been killed. He's scrubbed out two goons and thinks he might have some useful information." The Duty Officer would look up the number. "Price? I didn't know he was still out in the field." How many people in the building would know the name? Hell, what a mess. Bond rummaged in Elsa's handbag and found a packet of Gitanes. He thought back over the evening's events. Price should have stayed put – a younger, fitter man might have made it back in time. But if he hadn't crossed to the embassy, Bond would be dead or captured by now. He swigged the weak beer to combat the acrid tasting Gitanes, but all the beer in the world couldn't assuage the nagging voice that murmured _Guilty_. Bond ground the cigarette into his half-eaten meal and tried to master his feelings. Damn it all, Price knew what he was doing! Elsa returned wearing a towel wrapped around her wet hair.

"You look like Ali Baba," said Bond.

"And you smell like the Forty Thieves." She pointed to the bathroom. Bond obediently made his way to the tiny bathroom and stepped into the shower. A brief examination of his body told the tale of the evening - his stomach was already turning black. By the week's end the bruising would explore all the colours of the rainbow. His left eye was almost swollen shut, and he would be lucky not to lose the nail on his left hand's little finger. Scratches, cuts and yet more bruises sent tiny distress signals from all parts of his body.

Bond stood under the steaming shower until there was no more hot water. Still he did not move. He leaned his forehead against the cold tiles. Each time he closed his eyes the blinding flash of the tram wires returned to haunt him. Had he been too hard on Price? Was his scheme foolhardy? A man had died for the sake of one word: Decima. What on earth did that mean? Was it worth a man's life? Eventually the freezing water drove such thoughts from him and he returned shivering to the living room to find that Elsa had erected a camp bed below the window. Without a word she ushered him to the bed. Sleep intercepted his mumbled thanks.

Bond awoke to sobbing and screaming. He sprang out of bed and ran through the unfamiliar flat, tracing the screaming to Elsa's bedroom. She was having a nightmare, the sheets wound round her, her hair spread in disarray across the pillows. Bond gently woke her. Her eyes were wet.

"Oh, James! I was dreaming about Daniel, and he kept falling and falling and I couldn't catch him and there was a flash and the smell, oh the smell – "

Words failed her, and her shoulders shook, dislodging the white cotton sheet from around her neck. Bond tenderly drew the sheet back up to her collarbone. Her hand stopped him. Their eyes locked, her lips parted and Bond marvelled how quickly the animal instinct took over. They were both alive. His fingers slowly traced their way from her damp cheek to her bare, smooth shoulder. The calloused edge of his right hand brushed a proud nipple. Elsa's breath caught, and Bond took her in his arms and decided not to let go for a very long time.


	13. Chapter 6 - Jankers

JANKERS

The very long time lasted until Bond booked tickets for the first available plane to England. A quick kiss and a stifled sob from Elsa in a quiet corner of the distinctly unromantic cafeteria at Lisbon Airport were a messy end to a messy business. She had grown up fast in the last twenty-four hours; too fast - and it was his fault. He knew that Elsa would contact London to give her version of yesterday's events while he brooded twenty thousand feet above a choppy Bay of Biscay. Bad news travelled fast. He hadn't enjoyed recounting the fiasco via Station L's scrambler to a signals officer whose gently patronising tone spoke volumes. Behind a pair of Ray-Bans, hastily bought to cover his black eye, Bond's thoughts were as bleak as the blanket of cloud louring over a sodden London. No matter how favourably Elsa slanted her story, it wouldn't sound good; he hadn't exactly covered himself in glory.

Bond arrived early at the large, sombre building off Regents Park that was the Service's headquarters, but had barely stepped into his office before the red phone summoned him to a meeting with M. Now he sat in M's office, waiting for the patrician profile he knew so well to turn from the rain-spattered window and deliver a verdict on the Lisbon operation. The silence grew heavy and then oppressive. Finally, M faced Bond and rapped his pipe on the edge of his in-tray.

"Running through a Russian embassy like a dose of salts is not my idea of covert observation. You're lucky that Price was unrecognisable or the Russians would have kicked every British national out of Moscow. As it is, the Portuguese press is reporting his death as suicide."

"I'm sorry, sir. He was a good man."

"Yes, he was. But he was also becoming a liability." M noticed Bond's glance at the thick buff folder on his desk. "Price's Service record. Tough, experienced; had a good war. Too good, perhaps. It's said that men have only a certain reserve of courage. One can draw from the well once too often and then come up dry when it's most needed. Never believed it, myself."

"He wasn't a coward, sir."

"Damnation, I know that, 007!" cracked M. "He did his duty. But the Chief of Staff and I were concerned about his drinking – the quality of his signals was becoming increasingly erratic. We had thought about pulling him out and giving him a desk job somewhere, but when these leaks started we thought he might be part of the problem."

"And that's why you sent me out there."

"More or less." M sucked on his pipe and fiddled with a box of matches. Bond felt sympathy for the man who had sent him out on so many dangerous missions. It was obvious that M blamed himself for Price's grisly end. Bond tried another tack.

"About Decima, sir - have Signals come up with anything?"

M slumped back in his chair. "Nothing. They say they don't have enough information to put it in context. Decima is a codename for something, but for what? It could be an operative, a new cipher, a mole – anything. It could be a blasted washing detergent for all we know." M clamped down on his pipe in frustration. Bond reached for his cigarette case and instantly regretted it: M's look of censure was fierce.

"The Russians must have sent a clean-up squad to the embassy because there are no reports of any other deaths. We have nothing to go on apart from this Decima business, a good and faithful officer has been robbed of a well-earned retirement, and the Service is starting to leak like a Merchant Navy tug. I have no choice but to recommend that we pull in our horns and hope that the enemy makes a mistake. It's business as usual but all communications will be Triple-X. If Supplies write so much as a chit for a gross of ping-pong balls it will have to be written in deep code."

Bond waited for his orders. M looked tired. He saw with concern the deeply furrowed forehead and the unhealthy pallor. With a sigh, M rubbed his eyes and propped his pipe against the ashtray. It was most unusual for him to show such obvious signs of tiredness. No, not tiredness – it was more exhaustion than fatigue. His chief seemed to have run out of steam.

"Forgive me, sir, but you're not looking well," ventured Bond. "Perhaps a glass of water would help?" The words turned to ashes on his lips.

M's chin dropped to his chest. He leaned forward and placed his clasped hands on the desk, his breath emerging in a drawn-out hiss.

"Stand up, 007," he said quietly.

Bond slowly got to his feet, a puzzled look on his face. What was the old man up to now?

"Stand to attention, Commander!" barked M. Bond did so, his arms locked by his side, and stared at the wall above the old admiral's head. He had not stood to attention for years and did not enjoy the sensation. M's voice was so loud that Bond wondered if Moneypenny had heard his order. In the quiet of the office, M's voice rasped across the desk.

"Before you were assigned to this mission I warned you about sloppiness. For some months you have been derelict in your duties and now, because of a gung-ho attitude on your part, you have been indirectly responsible for a fellow officer's death. It may interest you to know that Daniel Price was one of the very first members of the Double-O Section." M noted Bond's shocked expression. "Yes, that's right. I knew 002 when he was fresh to the Service and, let me tell you, he would have had you for breakfast. That he should survive the worst of what Franco, Hitler and Stalin threw at him only to die because of a fellow Double-O is very hard to take."

Bond tried to interrupt but M banged a fist on his desk. "No-one has a divine right to be a member of this department! Since we have no information to act on, we have no need of you for the moment. It's time you were reminded of some of the basic attributes required of Her Majesty's servants. You will go home immediately, pack for cold weather duties and present yourself at RAF Tangmere at 0500 hours tomorrow. Dismissed."

Bond hesitated then saluted, wheeled away and marched out of the room. Moneypenny waited expectantly for the usual exchange of pleasantries as Bond appeared from M's office, and was shocked as he walked straight past her desk and unleashed a string of barrack-room expletives, which was cut short only by a violent slam of her office door.

Bond flexed his cold fingers and wondered that his hand had ever been hot enough to suffer burns. After enduring three weeks on manoeuvres in Finland with the Special Boat Service, he would have welcomed almost any form of warmth, such was the pitiless cold of Northern Lapland in late autumn. Or was it early winter? There was precious little difference as far as he was concerned. The initial distraction of hard exercise in new surroundings had worn off, and now he was thrashing against boredom as much as the cold – as was surely M's intention. Jankers, the old army term for punishment, had held him captive in numerous icy foxholes until tedium threatened to drive him mad. M obviously thought that punishment was a dish best served frozen, and now Bond could recite its recipe by heart: take one disgraced, bored, frozen Double-O agent, and order him to make icecrete by mixing dirt, sand and gravel into wooden frames; add water; tamp securely and bake at well below room temperature. A one-foot crust wrapped around each foxhole should satisfy even the most demanding of bullet fragments. Serve until sick of it.

All right, perhaps he had become a little carefree in his attitude. Perhaps he had been at fault over the Lisbon mess. M might have been right that Bond needed sharpening up. Well, the cold and the exercise had certainly pared him down – his body was lean, his face raw from the cold, and his mind hungry for action, for distraction, for any kind of bloody thing to do rather than spend endless hours counting snowflakes. Bond was angrier than he had been for a long time and his anger was compounded by his impotence to express that anger.

There had been time enough to contemplate the mounting stack of files that was no doubt waiting to ambush him on his eventual return to London. And, worryingly, there had also been more than enough time to realise that he might not return to his office again. He was for all intents and purposes _persona non grata_ with the Service, and there was no guarantee he would ever be welcomed back into the fold. What if he could not return to his duties? What then? Resignation seemed inevitable – he balked at flying a desk. Only active duty was tolerable, and until the world threw up another Herr Hitler to march through the streets there was precious little to do for an out of work spy. What would he do in Civvy Street? Become a policeman? Always the bridesmaid and never the bride? Perhaps he could go freelance and become a private investigator, like one of those shady types invented by Raymond Chandler. And do what? Spy on errant husbands, and arrange an incriminating photograph in a seedy Brighton hotel so everyone could divorce amicably? Bond shuddered.

What then? Be a strong-arm man and kowtow to some greasy mobster? Become a mercenary? There was money to be made in Africa and South America. Be a gun for hire?

Bond remembered the gleeful look on the guard's face as he stamped at Price's lifeline. No, that was the difference; he had never enjoyed killing in cold blood. And as for killing for used bundles of various denominations - that was dirty money in more ways than one. No, whatever he was, he was better than that. Juan Pujol had risked his life for a cause, a belief - so had Price. Bond would do the same. And he would reserve enjoyment for punishing those who merited it.

His eyes flashed dangerously up at the man standing on the low dais at the rear of the barracks hall. Major Pastinen of the Lapland Jaeger Battalion was certainly an object worthy of his ire. The Finn had made no secret of his displeasure at Helsinki's agreeing to London's request to keep Bond in training when the rest of the SBS had returned home. The isolated outpost of the Lapland Military Province marched to the major's rhythm, but Bond could not bring himself to fall in step. As Pastinen addressed the assembled troops seated in the hall, Bond stared at the creased face and dreamed of giving the major's beard a good hard yank.

"I will form one half of a two-man infiltration team dropped near the border," intoned Pastinen. "My partner is a colleague from our NATO allies. We will attempt to return to this base unobserved. It will be your job to track us down." Pastinen gestured for Bond to show himself. Bond reluctantly rose and turned to face the hundred or so troops. A sea of young, over-confident faces stared back at him. One or two of the rawer recruits failed to contain their smiles. This foreigner was to be the hare and they would enjoy running him down. Bond gave the assembly a curt nod and sat down, thinking fondly of machine-gunning the entire gathering. Pastinen moved to the very front of the stage, his face grim. Bond was sure that none of the young Finns would dare to smile at their Commanding Officer.

"Most soldiers only have to worry about killing their opposite number. As winter fighters, you have two opponents – the enemy and nature. Defeat the enemy and befriend nature. You must do both. Fail to do both and you will die. Now, I'm going to remind you of the basics of winter warfare for the benefit of those men not experienced in the craft." Bond did not care for the major's glance in his direction. Cheeky beggar.

"I'm sure you've heard the saying, 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' Well, in winter you must keep your equipment closer than either of them. For instance, your weapons are now standing in racks outside the door. This is the only time you will ever be parted from your weapon. Should you bring it inside, your gun will immediately begin to sweat in the warmer air. Similarly, never place your gun on the ground – the snow will cause a warm barrel to warp almost instantly. If you're lucky you'll be able to shoot around corners; if you're unlucky the gun will blow up in your face. Everyone on this exercise will carry a full complement of live ammunition and grenades – the lazy soldier will not look after blank magazines and dummy explosives."

Pastinen nodded to a waiting sergeant who parted the curtains behind him with a flourish to reveal a huge colour map of the Rovaniemi region of Lapland. "After I have left, you will study this map and plan your strategy. The sergeant here will give you the details you need. But be warned – in severe weather the rules of geography change and natural frontiers disappear: rivers freeze, lakes will support transport, and snow can betray your whereabouts." Pastinen smiled. "In Finland, it is possible to walk on water. No-one understood this better than Simo Hayha of the 34th Infantry Regiment. He started life as a farmer and in the end killed Russian soldiers like cattle because he understood the conditions and the Russians didn't. He taught them a lesson and the Russians taught it to the Germans. Make sure you learn the lesson from a Finn. That is all."

With a shout from the sergeant, the troops stood to attention. Pastinen saluted his men and then strode along the aisle, trailing Bond in his wake. Once outside, Bond took his firearm, a KP/-31 submachine gun, from the racks lined against the hangar and made sure to stay abreast of the man with whom he was to spend the next two days. They trudged wordlessly between lines of barrack huts, their boots crunching on the salted paths. Turning a corner, Bond noticed an old lorry standing near the fuel depot; its paintwork, scoured by endless winter storms, had worn away to reveal a faint blue swastika. Pastinen followed Bond's startled gaze.

"It is rude to stare, Commander."

"Sorry, Major. It's not something one expects to see."

"Do not confuse our swastika with the Third Reich's – it was not a Nazi symbol here. My brother died resisting the Wehrmacht. I seem to recall Great Britain was happy enough to fight with the Russians not so long ago, yet now you are at loggerheads." Pastinen moved on, the history lesson at an end. Bond pulled a sour face. It was true that war made uneasy bedfellows. The 'Winter War' of '39 had seen Finland stand alone against Russia. Desperate to avoid defeat, Finland had adopted the pragmatic policy of 'my enemy's enemy is my friend' and allied itself with Germany. Another hard-nosed decision was to come: in the last months of World War II Finland turned on its ally and quickened the death throes of the Nazi regime.

Bond was about to reply rather too tartly to preserve diplomatic relations when he rounded an oil tank and spotted his transport. A gleaming helicopter waited on the parade ground. Pastinen beamed at Bond and began to talk in the singsong manner of a teacher reciting a familiar lesson to a class from the lower stream. Bond played along.

"A Sud-Est Alouette II. Seats five. Good at high altitude. The French sold it to us. It's our first military helicopter. I'm hoping the air force will see sense and start a helicopter wing." Pastinen guided Bond around the helicopter, obviously delighted with his new acquisition. The pale green pride and joy of the Border Aviation Guard was bi-lingual: its nearside announced itself in Finnish as _Rajavartiolaitos_ and, on the Swedish offside, as _Gränsbevakningen._

Pastinen twirled a finger in the air. The pilot raised a thumb in reply and fine snow began to whip around Bond's ears as the blades started to revolve. Bond climbed in, strapped himself to a window seat, and was deeply annoyed when Pastinen tugged at his harness and patted Bond's sides and pockets. The instruction to put his spare ammunition in his outside pockets to keep them at the same temperature as his gun was both unnecessary and deeply patronising.

The Finn had to shout to make himself heard over the straining rotors. "You have searched your pockets for anything colourful, I hope? A simple thing like a khaki handkerchief will give us away. You must be whiter than white. Anything that stands out from the snow cover will betray you."

"I'll remember to brush my teeth," yelled Bond, using the roar of the ascending copter as an excuse to shout his reply. He was glad the noise of the helicopter made any conversation impossible. Miles of thick forest unfolded below him. Near the base there were still a few unfrozen marshes, their surfaces reflecting like pools of silver in the low winter sun, but as the helicopter turned north the landscape became an endless patchwork of pine trees, snow and frozen lakes. Pastinen sat opposite him, his eyes closed. The square face was deeply lined through years of exposure to the arctic climate. His fulsome blond beard was shot with streaks of grey. Bond was sensible enough to follow his partner's orders – the older man was the expert, though Bond himself was no beginner – but that didn't mean he couldn't give the Finn a run for his money. Bond sat back in his seat and watched the frigid landscape slide past his window until a change in the note of the rotors' whine told him their destination was near. The pilot lowered his steed into a clearing in a thick pine forest. Bond caught a glimpse of distant thunderheads and then everything disappeared from sight as the landing helicopter kicked up a mini blizzard. He estimated they had landed a good thirty miles from the base. Following Pastinen's lead, he perched on the edge of the helicopter's cabin and snapped on his skis. In less than a minute the two men had hauled on their rucksacks (Bond's included the heavy radio) and cleared the rotor circle.

Pastinen waved to the pilot and the chopper roared away. He consulted his wrist compass and without a word began to ski towards a belt of pine trees. Bond had to hurry to keep up and used the exertion required to practice a few choice expletives under his breath. He concentrated on skiing in the Finn's tracks and after a while found his rhythm, his muscles loosening after the constrictions of the helicopter's harness. He savoured the crisp sound of his blades cutting the virgin snow amid the muted chatter of startled birds. The air was so fresh one could almost drink it, and it seemed to renew his lungs as he gulped down each breath. Bond had skied with relish as a young man, but had concentrated almost exclusively on throwing himself down black runs whenever he had the chance. The discipline of skiing for mile after mile was new to him and, despite his fitness, his calves and lungs started to complain almost immediately.

The ground began to fall away and Bond crouched thankfully and let gravity do the work. Pastinen's tracks passed before him through an especially dense thicket of trees, and then Bond gasped as he saw what seemed an endless wasteland of snow and ice. A featureless plain of snow and ice stretched away to a low range of mountains in the far distance. Pastinen was already at the bottom of the slope and had started to stride across the wasteland. Bond knew that the two would make easy targets on such a blank canvas, so he concentrated on catching up his colleague. Their goal was to reach high ground and the safety of the tree line. The two men slogged across the plain for miles on end. The only sign of life in the barren tract came when their route coincided with the tracks of a small animal, probably an arctic fox; Bond imagined that the fox would probably be better company than his taciturn companion. Eventually Pastinen raised an arm to call a halt. Bond leant on his poles, concentrating on little else but getting as much of the freezing air into his scorched lungs as possible. The Finn drank from his water thermos. Bond did the same, determined not to be the first to break the silence. Pastinen examined a small compass.

"Our route takes us north-east in the direction of the border. Tomorrow, with luck, we will skirt round the search parties and approach the base obliquely. My men need to learn that enemies do not attack in straight lines." Pastinen delivered his speech to the horizon, barely acknowledging Bond's presence. With a sniff, he dug his poles into the snow and began to make for a distant range of low hills. Bond, still resting on his ski poles, watched the major gather speed. He looked around at the wasteland of snow, rocks and ice. To the west, the sun hid below a craggy range of rocks, as though sheepish to come this near the Arctic Circle. To the north, directly in Pastinen's route, noxious cloudbanks promised a viciously unpleasant evening. He took one last look at Pastinen's retreating form. If he was going to be cold, tired and hungry for the next two days then so be it – but he was damned well not going to be second to Nanook of the bloody North. He bent his back to the task and began to chase his quarry.

Pastinen's route took him skilfully between low hillocks, using every last curve and slope to avoid steep climbs wherever possible. The Finn was the more accomplished skier, but Bond estimated he had about fifteen years on him. Gradually Bond began to reel in Pastinen, and a quick glance behind from the Finn told Bond that the strain was beginning to tell. He could hear the older man fighting for breath. At last Bond was close enough to move out of the ski-tracks and move alongside Pastinen. With a savage surge of skis and poles, Bond managed to get in front and experienced a childish sense of victory, delighted he was winning the absurd race. A long upslope finally flattened out and Bond, pausing momentarily, saw the black streak of a frozen river at the bottom of the hill. He would cross over and wait for Pastinen. Let Nanook chew on that! As he pushed off the slithering sound behind him heightened and the world turned upside down. Bond's quick release boots snapped off his skis and he felt the heavy weight of the Finn on top of him. Bond used the only weapon to hand, his ski pole, and jabbed its point under Pastinen's chin. A cloud of hot air swirled around the two tired men as they stared at each other. Bond pressed the point of his ski pole further into the Finn's throat.

"Something you're not telling me, Major?"

The Finn gasped for breath. It was a few seconds before he could turn his eyes towards the direction of the stream.

"Ice – not safe," he croaked.

Bond evaluated the defiant expression, looked at the ice a few yards away and then back at Pastinen. Without a word he relaxed his grip on the ice pole. The two men helped each other up and caught their breath, Pastinen wheezing heavily. Snow began to fall and Bond was rocked on his feet by a gusting wind.

Pastinen pointed to a nearby clump of trees. "We'll bivouac here. That snow bank will make a suitable windbreak. If you will pitch the tent, Commander, I shall gather some wood for the fire. My troops are a day away and they will never see the smoke in the coming blizzard."

Bond endured a miserable time erecting the flapping tent but was cheered when Pastinen expertly lit some kindling and quickly built a roaring fire. Dinner consisted of bully beef and dried potatoes. Pastinen hauled the radio from Bond's rucksack to call the base for a brief safety call. A prolonged twiddling of the radio's dials and switches produced various squawks and whistles but nothing intelligible.

"The Lights block our signal. We may be in for a show," muttered Pastinen. He sat on the other side of the fire from Bond.

Bond scanned the velvety sky. A faint ribbon of green hung between the stars. The Northern Lights – _Aurora Borealis_. Bond had seen the spectral light before but never this far north. Perhaps the trip wouldn't be a complete waste of time after all. He scooped snow into a pan and melted it over the fire. They drank coffee in silence. Bond looked at Pastinen through the leaping flames. This couldn't go on. It was time, as it were, to break the ice.

"Sorry, Major. The ice looked solid to me."

"It does to most people." Pastinen returned to contemplating his coffee. Bond was about to retire for the night when Pastinen walked over and sat down next to him. He filled his mug again.

"I must apologise for the coffee. But at least it's hot. I suppose you would prefer a cup of tea."

"The worst cup of coffee is preferable to the best cup of tea."

Pastinen smiled. "I suspect you are being polite. Now, about that river – in cold weather it will freeze solid, but if there is a spell of warm weather the stream will run again over the ice. When the temperature drops again it freezes another thin layer over the stream. Walk out on that and you will be the meat in an ice sandwich, ja?"

Bond raised his mug in thanks. He thought of the legendary sniper with the jocular name.

"Tell me about Simo Hayha."

"Hayha? Nowadays he hunts moose and breeds dogs, I'm glad to say. He is nothing special to look at – a small man." Pastinen wagged a finger. "But a small man makes a small target. And Sniper Hayha is a hard man – harder than any frost. He disappeared early in 1940 – we thought his luck had run out. We were right in a way – a Russian bullet had crushed his jaw and torn off his left cheek. It would have killed most men. The record books say he killed 505 men in three months. Nonsense. Hayha left a few more sons of Russia out there but was too busy to count." Pastinen hefted his machinegun. "And he did it all with an iron-sighted Mosin-Nagant." The Finn saw the doubt in Bond's eyes. His voice hardened.

"I know someone else who used the same equipment. Heard of Sulo Kolkka?"

Bond shook his head.

"The Russians feared Hayha; Kolkka terrified them. He took the war behind the Russian lines. Ivan smokes a cigarette three miles from the front and bang! One dead _soldat_. Over 400 of them with an iron sight. But Kolkka wasn't fussy. He killed another 200 with a submachine gun. The Russians hunted him and he outran them all. So it got personal. You know the 'Duel of Stalingrad?'"

Bond nodded. That legendary contest he did know. Zaitsev and Thorvald. So deadly was Sergeant Zaitsev in his campaign among the smoking ruins on the shores of the Don that Berlin had sent their best sniper, an SS Colonel, to kill him. The alleged contest had ended with one more dead German lying among the rubble in Ninth of January Square. Bond remembered the Armourer's sceptical look when he had mentioned it to him one evening in the Q Branch workshop. He decided not to queer the pitch and motioned for Pastinen to continue.

"You do know it. Well, the Russians sent a top man to kill Kolkka. They sniped and ran for several days. Kolkka got him. Single shot – 600 yards. Like Hayha he used an iron sight because he could get his head lower than if he used a scope – which meant he could let bullets part his hair. So don't sneer at old equipment. A gun is only as good as the man firing it."

Bond, suitably impressed by the Finn's knowledge, thought it best to say so. "I'm sorry if I gave offence. But I know what you mean about old equipment. Used to use a Beretta for close-up work myself. Never let me down." Bond enjoyed the little white lie. "But I had to change. That's progress for you."

Pastinen grunted in agreement. He threw the rest of his coffee away. "Enough stories, Commander. We need to get inside and keep warm. The weather is closing in."

It was indeed. A vicious gale invaded the campsite and whipped the canvas tent. The wind swept aside the thick cloud. Bond smiled to see a green river of light run skipping between the cloudbanks. Ethereal light seeped through the tent flaps. Snug in his sleeping bag, Bond watched the dancing radiance play above his head. He found himself thinking about Price. For a moment he saw again the last sickly burst of searing blue-white light, but then came another indelible image – Price, stupefied, holding the pineapple. Bond had humiliated him. Was that what awaited Bond, a few years and a few bottles down the line? Would he be the old stag failing to keep up with the young buck? He glanced at Pastinen's prone form. Or the old hand who started races he couldn't win? At last the fierce wind ruffling the tent abated a little, allowing Bond to slump into a dreamless sleep.


	14. Chapter 7 - A Thaw Point

A THAW POINT

Breakfast, taken in the confines of the tent, was a mixed success. Pastinen introduced Bond to the delights of Koulunäkki crispbread, assuring him that whatever it lacked in flavour it made up for in protein. The sour taste of dark rye was not unpleasant, but all in all Bond decided that a fresh croissant or even a bagel was a far more civilised way to start the day. Only when he had washed down the last jagged crumbs with his second mug of ersatz coffee did Pastinen tell him about the manufacturer's traditional slogan: 'for conscripts and prisoners only'. Bond dryly replied that it was no wonder the Russians couldn't conquer a race that ate cardboard. Pastinen countered that Finns always called it plywood; but he seemed to like the joke, giving Bond hope that the day would prove to be more pleasant than yesterday. The weather, however, was much worse; a snowstorm had broken over the plain, and visibility, even with binoculars, was much reduced. The radio proved useless, still affected by the now invisible northern lights. Bond scanned the horizon for Pastinen's troops, not really expecting to see anything. It would be a miracle if anyone found them today.

The wind died momentarily and Bond was pleased when the boring veil of snow and ice dropped, allowing him a grandstand view of the countryside. There was disappointingly little to see: snow, ice, distant rocky peaks, the occasional black rock and, far off, a desultory row of stumpy trees. The snow dunes were as arid as their sandy cousins. It was going to be a long day. Bond stamped his already cold feet and looked once more for luck. The stumpy trees had moved a little closer. He focused his binoculars to take a closer look. The snow was beginning to whip up again, but Bond had seen enough to know that a line of troops was approaching their position.

"Major, I don't know whether to laugh or cry," he called. "It seems your troops have a good teacher."

Pastinen emerged from the tent, a surprised look on his face. Following Bond's lead he trained his own binoculars on the other side of the plain. Bond noticed a proud smile playing under the twin lenses. "Finland's troops are second to none, Commander. In these conditions – wait." The voice was a steel whip. "Wait. It's my old friends from over the border. They love to pretend they still own this part of the world."

Bond raised his binoculars again. Yes, the major was right. The troops were Russian - and they were definitely coming this way. He turned to look at Pastinen, who seemed frozen to the spot. Something was wrong. Bond barely heard the whispered exclamation.

"Spetsnaz!" Pastinen let loose a low whistle.

"How can you tell? They look like regular Russian troops to me."

"Can you see a dark shape over their left shoulders?"

Bond focused on the nearest figure slogging across the plain. Yes, the soldier looked lopsided, as though bearing a hump on one side.

"Got it. What is it?"

"A special Spetsnaz shovel. The tool has a broad, flat blade and three sharp edges. It makes a wonderful improvised weapon and is absolutely deadly in skilled hands. They have transport, too. Looks like a snowmobile. Someone likes to travel in comfort."

Things were going from bad to worse. Spetsnaz were some of the toughest fighting soldiers in the world, renowned for their tenacity and superb tactics. They held an almost mystical appeal for the average Russian soldier, and the CCCP preferred to keep it that way by not allowing Spetsnaz troops to wear any distinctive uniform or insignia.

"That's most unusual," growled Pastinen. "Those bastards usually know better than to cross the border. We may turn a blind eye to the regular troops hopping over the border so they can brag about it to their girlfriends back home, but when crack troops turn up – that's serious. I don't like it and I don't like them."

Bond didn't like it one bit either. As far as Pastinen was concerned he was chaperoning a Royal Navy officer on a goodwill exercise. Bond didn't have a high opinion of himself, but he was realistic about his standing in the Secret Service. He was a prize. If the Russians were to "escort" him back to Soviet territory and discover his identity – that was something he couldn't allow.

Pastinen blew out his cheeks in anger. "They steal a tenth of our land and that isn't enough for them. If only I had a platoon. They haven't seen us yet, but we must get higher and radio my base."

The next minute passed in a blur as the two men hastily packed the tent, donned their skis and withdrew deeper into the forest. Amid the silence of the trees Bond heard the low growl of the snowmobile's tracks as it reached the end of the plain. Soon afterwards a group of soldiers arrived at the campsite, guns drawn, and began to search the lower reaches of the trees. Bond peered through his field glasses at the Russians' leader. There was not much to see behind the winter garb of hood and goggles, but Bond noted a broad, battered nose – an island in a sea of pockmarks – and a weak chin.

Pastinen whispered in Bond's ear. "I know a few of the Russian officers by sight – but I've never seen this man before. Nor with heavy transport and so many men. But it's not an invasion force. What are they up to?"

The Russian troops had spread out at the base of the hill and were now starting to climb towards them. Bond tapped Pastinen on the shoulder and quickly began to climb towards the crest of the hill. A glance over his shoulder told him that Pastinen was following, and for the next few minutes he concentrated on putting as much distance as possible between him and the Russian troops. Eventually he stopped and a minute later heard the swish of Pastinen's skis.

"May I remind you that I'm in charge here, Commander?" panted Pastinen. "We're not at war. Why shouldn't we make ourselves known to these Cossacks?"

Bond was alone, almost friendless, in a desolate part of the world and faced with the imminent prospect of a grisly incarceration. His training, his preference was to stay unnoticed and surreptitious. He loathed having to rely on others for aid, especially when that meant compromising his anonymity, the lifeblood of any secret agent. Pastinen stood before him, hands on hips, his bushy beard jutting defiantly. Could he trust this man? What choice did he have?

"If you want to meet them that's up to you, Major," murmured Bond, "But I can't take that chance. If they find out who I am I'll be in the basement of the Lubyanka within the week."

Pastinen stared hard at Bond, trying to evaluate the stranger before him. He stroked his beard.

"It's like that, is it?"

"Yes. It's like that. I'm sorry, Major."

"Call me Ari. I can call you James, ja?" The Finn pronounced it 'Chimes'.

"You can call me James, Ari."

"Good. You know, I am tired, all Finns are so tired of people treating us like a doormat. If it's not the Russians, it's the Germans. Now NATO seems to think we make a good parade ground. As far as I'm concerned you can all go to hell. But you are in my keeping. I am responsible for you." He seemed to make up his mind. "The Lubyanka, you say?" Pastinen shook his ski poles in irritation. "That's no place for a soldier. I can't understand what they're doing here. Do you think they have spotted us?"

"No, and I don't want them to. Perhaps it's just our bad luck, but let's not give them the chance."

"I agree. Out here there's nothing to stop them using us for target practice; our bodies may never be found. First things first. We must stay in the trees as much as possible. We'll have to skirt round them to the east – "

"Nearer the border?"

"Ja, to the west is nothing but open ground. We must stay hidden. And the snowmobile will labour among the trees. You trust me, James?"

Bond studied the flinty eyes set under snow-encrusted eyebrows. "A man who eats plywood for breakfast is a man to be trusted."

Pastinen grinned. "So! Follow my tracks, and this time make sure you stay behind me. I know this country - you don't. There are no paths in this forest."

The next two hours were a trial of stamina, of navigation, and of ankle ligaments; the dense range of pine trees filtered the already weak light, and Bond had to concentrate on placing his skis in the slaloming Pastinen's ruts to the exclusion of all else. Low branches whipped at his legs. After the first few minutes Bond lost sight of his companion; the old Norseman could thread the eye of the pine needle, as it were. He was learning at first hand the adage about not seeing the forest for the trees – without the tracks to follow he would have no point of reference. They settled into a routine, Bond losing sight of Pastinen on downhill stretches and catching him up on climbs. Occasionally the trees would peter out and Pastinen would anxiously scrutinize the horizon for signs of the Russian troops. At length Bond slid next to the Finn, who crouched behind a tree, studying his compass. Behind Pastinen, Bond could see nothing but a flat, featureless plain. There was no cover anywhere. The dimming afternoon could not make up its mind – one moment conjuring a ferocious whiteout, the next scouring the sky and allowing the northern lights to bathe the scene in a sickly kaleidoscope of colours.

"An inlet of Lake Inari," said Pastinen between swigs from his water thermos. "Now we head south towards Virtaniemi or maybe Nellim. We must cross it as quickly as we can. There is no cover at all. Towards the end it narrows into a steep valley with rocky walls, very like a fjord – once through that we should be safe. I think we are far enough east to cross it without being seen. But if we are – "

"Understood."

The weather had cleared for a few minutes, during which the northern lights bathed everything in an electric green. They skied over the lake like two ants crossing a frozen puddle. Bond assigned the droning in his ears to the fatigue ravaging his body. The droning got louder, and Bond realised at the same time as Pastinen that the sound was a feathering propeller. They pulled down their hoods and stopped to listen.

"There," said Bond, pointing to a black speck emerging from the clouds to the north. "Looks like a reconnaissance plane – single prop."

It headed straight for them. Bond could see now that the plane was flying extremely slowly and was struggling not to stall in the high winds. It buzzed less than fifty feet above them. Both men instinctively ducked, but not before Bond saw a flash of Soviet markings.

"It's too heavy," shouted Pastinen. "Remember, James, it's not yet fully winter here. The ice isn't thick enough to support an aeroplane."

The plane crossed over their heads twice more, this time at a much greater height and each time waggling its wings.

"What's he trying to tell us?" asked Pastinen.

"It's not us – it's them," said Bond. "He's signalling our position to his friends on the ground. Of course! They must be having problems with their radios as well."

The weather closed in again. After an hour or so, they looked back at a dark smudge on the horizon. Through binoculars they saw the snowmobile in front of a line of Soviet soldiers.

"That settles it," shouted Pastinen above the wind. "They are definitely pursuing us – the border is the other way."

But why, Bond asked himself. What possible explanation was there for the Russians' appearance and their seeming determination to catch the two of them? No matter. He could worry about that later – if there was a later to worry about.

"Ari, you're in command. What do you suggest?"

"What do I suggest? It is my duty to meet any invading troops with all the hostility I can muster. But," said Pastinen with conviction, "it is also my duty to stay alive and let my country know what is happening. Therefore, we give them a bloody nose and get away at all costs. If I don't make it, James, I must rely on you. Someone must alert the authorities."

"We will both get back in one piece because I want to hear why the army lets you keep that ridiculous beard."

"Hah! That is a deal. Now, I have an idea, but we must reach the southern end of the lake. No talk. We ski."

The secret to sustaining a high level of exertion is to find a rhythm. Unconsciously the two men dug their ski poles into the ice simultaneously, their torsos and arms bending and unbending like the valve gears of two miniature steam locomotives. The weather deteriorated still further, forcing Bond to keep wiping fresh snow from his ice-encrusted goggles as they toiled in a smog of fog and snow. Pastinen checked his wrist compass every few minutes. Only the virgin ice beneath their skis was proof that they were not going round in circles. After an hour of unrelenting exertion Bond's arms started to weary, and he noticed that Pastinen's previously impeccable form had begun to slip, the Finn's hips swaying in a bid to keep his rhythm. Both men were now using the ultimate motivation, fear, to drive them beyond their normal limits of endurance. In the dim light, Bond sensed rather than saw a darker edge to the horizon on either side and realised that they must have entered the valley. The weather was so bad that the valley's near perpendicular walls were all but invisible. Pastinen called a halt. The two men wheezed, fighting the howling gale that threatened to snatch away each breath.

"We have six grenades between us – that might be enough," shouted Pastinen hoarsely. "You see that tree on the outcrop? I want you to take some branches, cut them into six lengths two feet long and shave off all the twigs." Pastinen brandished his knife. "I have some digging to do. Now move!"

The two men dashed apart, Bond to the lone pine that had miraculously found a footing at the bottom of the rocky walls, and Pastinen to work midway along the ice. Bond hacked at the unfortunate tree and a few minutes later he grabbed the cut branches and hurtled back across the lake. Pastinen was on his knees, hacking away at the surface. He nodded at Bond's handiwork.

"I've cut two holes already. This is the third. Watch closely." Pastinen took a thin nylon cord hanging from his belt and tied it to the grenade's pin. "This is the detonation cord," gasped Pastinen, pointing to the thin line. He cut a shorter line of cord, tying one end around the grenade and the other to the midway point of a branch. Grabbing both ends of the branch, he dangled the grenade over the hole. Bond craned his neck and saw that the ice at the bottom was black – the dark water was only inches below.

"Pierce the ice, James. I want a hole the same size as the grenade but no bigger."

Bond punched the tip of his knife through the ice and carefully shaved the edges of the hole he had made. Pastinen suspended the grenade over the hole and lowered it until its bottom half was submerged. He then rotated the branch, winding the cord until it was taut, and at the same time lowered the branch until it rested on the ice above the larger hole.

Pastinen stood up, groaning with fatigue. He kicked the loose snow over the hole and flattened it with his skis until it was all but invisible. Only the detonation cord lying on the ground betrayed the bomb's position, and the falling snow was already obscuring it from sight.

"Ideally the explosive should be fully in the water so the pressure erupts upwards and breaks the ice from below. But these grenades are not waterproof and we don't have an electrical detonator. If we placed the grenades in a shallow hole the ice would cushion most of the shockwave." Pastinen shrugged. "This is the best I can do."

Bond clapped him on the shoulder. "It looks good to me, Ari. But are we going to set them off one at a time?"

Pastinen gave a withering look. "James, we Finns know a thing or two about fighting out here. I have no wish to kill a lot of men without good reason, so I will not destroy the ice beneath their feet. If we blow up the ice in front of them they could still retreat down the valley and outflank us later. So here is a trick my brother taught me: we let the Russians pass over the first line of grenades and then blow up the lines behind and in front of them – "

" – leaving them marooned on the ice! By God, Ari, that's brilliant."

"We must tie one cord to all three grenades in each row and then," Pastinen mimicked a tugging motion, "Boom!" He pointed to the narrow river entrance a hundred yards away. "You must place another three bombs. Quickly, James!"

Bond's first grenade proved a tricky affair, but desperation lent his fingers wings and, sooner than he would have believed possible, he and Pastinen were surveying their trap.

"I'll look after the snowmobile. No arguments, Ari. You've done wonderfully but I'm younger and quicker."

"You anticipate my orders." A regretful smile. "Very well."

There was no time for further discussion. Already a gust of wind had carried the first faint squeak and whine of the snowmobile's tracks to their ears. By the time Bond had reached the lakeshore, gingerly playing out the line so as not to set off the grenades too early, Pastinen had scooped a shallow pit in the ice and covered himself in snow. It took Bond a few anxious moments to pick out his colleague's prone form from the surrounding whiteness. His anxiety increased when he realised that Pastinen was perilously close to Bond's line of grenades. Evidently he had run out of cord. It was too late to do anything about it. Bond snapped off his skis and ran towards the lake's edge, where frozen reeds bowed like stiff fingers. He picked a spot hard by the bank and brushed the overhanging snow with his arms to cover himself as much as possible. Lying on his elbows and knees, he found it difficult to keep his gun clear of the snow; he prayed that the black gunmetal would match the deep shadow cast by the bank. The cold began to sear through his winter clothing. Fatigue, nerves and the extreme cold threatened his self-control. Any second now he might succumb to uncontrollable shivering.

The snowmobile lumbered out of the mist like some mammoth returned to haunt the frozen north. Whoever was driving it on the thin ice was taking a hell of a risk. Bond watched with concern as it advanced towards Pastinen. No, no, this wasn't right. The vehicle had raced ahead of the troops; it would be impossible to catch both. Bond held his breath while the snowmobile's grinding tank tracks brushed past Pastinen's position. The growling snowmobile carried on and churned up onto the lakeshore. It stooped thirty yards from Bond, the idling engine barely audible over the howling wind. He could smell the acrid diesel fumes. The Russian officer must have wanted to get his heavy vehicle on to solid ground as soon as possible. The snowmobile's doors swung open, dislodging a coating of snow. Bond watched in disbelief while the officer and two other soldiers got out and stood at the back of the vehicle and watched their comrades on the ice. Someone did indeed like to travel in comfort – the Russian officer was too arrogant and lazy to take precautions. What could two men do against his troops?

Bond looked back to the ice and saw about a hundred or so troops trudge out of the wet vapour. They had passed the first line of grenades and were now approaching the second line and an innocuous hummock on the ice. Bond saw the white hummock move slightly; the captain was in for a nasty surprise.

A wall of ice and spray rose up behind the troops. Bond jerked his wire almost as a reflex and the troops disappeared in a whiteout. The sound was like thunder and lightning in reverse; first came the rumbling of the explosions off the valley's rocky walls, and then the sharp crack of the ice tearing and splitting. Bond felt the lake flex and warp like a piece of rubber under the pressure of the shockwave. Shards of ice fell back to earth, spattering across the lake and helping to split the ice further. The airborne cloud of ice and snow thinned, and Bond saw with alarm that the grenade nearest Pastinen had not exploded – it had left a bridge of ice for the soldiers to cross. The Spetsnaz troops scrambled towards the gap, but their weight caused the crack to expand and the floe to tip. Bond saw a black gash in the ice open and race the desperately sprinting soldiers. Before anyone could reach the firm footing near Pastinen the gash split the bridge asunder, and the ice promptly disintegrated into bobbing chunks. The soldiers nearest the water rushed comically back towards the centre of the floe, gesticulating and shouting wildly at their colleagues. At least sixty yards of icy black water surrounded the Russians front and back. To either side of them stood the sheer walls of the valley. Bond watched as one foolhardy soldier attempted to swim the gap. He struggled halfway across before a combination of the intense cold and his waterlogged boots and uniform threatened to pull him down. His comrades had to drag the distressed man from the water. Bond thought he would be lucky not to die from hypothermia.

The three men on the shore stood mesmerised by the scene in front of them. Bond jumped to his feet and covered the Russians with the barrel of his gun before they had a chance to react.

"Do you understand English?" he shouted. The officer nodded warily. "Drop your weapons."

They hesitated. Bond placed a few rounds at the Russians' feet. Three guns splashed into the snow. Pastinen was making his way to the snowmobile; even from a distance, Bond could see a huge grin parting the Finn's snow-draped beard. Bond was perplexed by the marooned soldiers refusal to shoot at them. What was going on? He walked off the lake and up the slope towards the snowmobile. Up close, Bond could see that two dull brown eyes complimented the officer's pockmarked skin and weak chin. Pastinen glanced at his prisoners' uniforms and addressed their leader.

"Good day, Captain. I am Major Pastinen of the Finnish Defence Forces and you are on Finnish sovereign territory. Lie face down, please." Another hesitation. "Don't worry, Captain. You're not going to get a bullet in the back of the head. As you damn well know, this is not Russia." Pastinen winked at Bond. They found some rope in the back of the snowmobile and tied up the three men who, huddled under the canvas roof, now looked very sorry for themselves.

"Sorry, James. I think one of the grenades must have got waterlogged," murmured Pastinen. He turned to the captives and bellowed, "What are you doing here? And don't tell me you are lost." Silence. Pastinen spat into the snow. "Hmph. Russians – I bet the captain here is a Muscovite. In the Winter War I fought against Siberians. They were real soldiers – not fortified with vodka and singing Le Internationale like my friend here. Those Siberian imps were so tough we had to kill them twice. But this bunny-boy won't give us any trouble. Will you?" The pockmarked face was treated to a close look at the barrel of Pastinen's machinegun. There would be no trouble.

A further search of the snowmobile's rear revealed some small arms and explosives. Bond helped the happy Pastinen to pile them on the floor of the front cabin. A powerful fan heater warmed the cabin deliciously.

Pastinen ran a finger over a metal plate screwed into the rudimentary dashboard. "I'll translate: 'GPI-23. Property of the Gorky Polytechnic Institute.' Interesting. Their technicians have been developing snowmobiles since the war and it looks like they've finally got it right. I prefer dogs myself. Still, my mechanics will be on fire when they see this." He grabbed the steering wheel and pressed a pedal in front of him. The vehicle began to lurch across the landscape. Bond opened a metal flap under the windscreen and retrieved, with much gratitude, an unlabelled bottle containing about three inches of a clear liquid. He pulled out the rough cork, sniffed the neck suspiciously and then upended the bottle.

"Filthy stuff," he gasped. He took another mouthful and relished the lava flowing through his chest. Through watering eyes, Bond saw Pastinen retune the snowmobile's radio and pick up the microphone. A stream of rapid Finnish burst from the tinny speaker. Pastinen returned in kind, no doubt issuing instructions to his troops. Bond could only imagine the gross humiliation the Spetsnaz captain was suffering. He would be lucky to avoid the gulags.

Pastinen switched off the radio. Bond gave him the bottle.

"Careful, Ari. It's almost as lethal as Polish vodka."

The Finn took a swig and looked at the bottle with respect. "These Russians are tougher than I thought," he coughed. "Anyway, our border forces are now on full alert. The Russian embassy is to be told that three 'lost' soldiers will be returned in due course. Also that their regiment needs rescuing. I'm sure our government will be only too happy to help the Russian ambassador with his map reading. And I told them to take their time about it." Pastinen laughed and banged the bottle of vodka on the communication grill behind him. "Hear that, comrade? Finnish hospitality is the best in the world. Do you know what one of your generals said after the Winter War?"

There was no answer. Pastinen winked at Bond. "No? I'll tell you. He said, 'We gained 22,000 square miles of territory. Just enough to bury our dead.' So consider yourself lucky!" Pastinen banged the grill shut and hooted with laughter. Bond took the opportunity to wrest the vodka from the Finn's grasp.

"Drink up, James. But I wonder what Spetsnaz were doing here?"

Bond wondered too. He watched Pastinen stroke his beard in puzzlement. "You promised to tell me why the army lets you grow that thing on your face."

"So I did. As a young conscript I got thirty days in the cooler each time I refused to shave it off. My colonel told me that no good soldier would wear a beard in his outfit. Well, being a brainless fool I took my life in my hands and told the colonel that I was certainly a good soldier and, what was more, if he gave me the chance, I would prove it to him." Pastinen grabbed the bottle and raised it to his lips. "At this point in my story you are allowed to comment."

"Ari, you're an idiot. Please continue." Bond was beginning to enjoy himself. Pastinen wiped his wet lips with the back of his hand and held out the bottle for Bond.

"This idiot has just saved your life. To continue – the Colonel says if I can avoid being caught by the entire battalion on exercise and return to HQ without being captured then, and only then, might I wear a beard. My mother didn't raise any fools," – a shadow passed over his face and Bond guessed he was thinking of his brother – "so I got up early on the morning of the exercise, ambushed the Colonel's staff driver, tied him up, took his uniform and then posed as his replacement. I drove my glorious leader to the exercise and there we waited, in warmth and comfort, until darkness fell and the exercise ended. I even took the liberty of accepting a drink from the colonel's hipflask while a thousand men shivered and cursed my name. I know, I know, James – you want to know how the colonel could not recognise a handsome man such as myself." A gloved hand waited for the bottle. Bond paid up and watched his friend finish the last of the vodka.

Pastinen grimaced. "Ah, these Russians are such peasants. Anyway, my story."

"Yes, your story."

"It was easy. A little dye to darken my magnificent head of hair and then the beard worked its magic."

"But surely the beard must have given you away?"

Pastinen slapped the steering wheel in triumph. "I shaved it off. He'd never seen me without it and, well – "

Bond laughed at the sheer cheek of the man. Pastinen wagged the empty bottle at him. "The best camouflage of all is always in plain sight, my friend. No-one is even looking for you."

Two hours of ploughing through the thick snow passed mostly in silence; the powerful heater had a soporific effect on the two exhausted men. Bond had almost dozed off when he spotted a row of soldiers ghosting out of the blankness. He sat bolt upright. There was a fraught minute or so when Pastinen's troops thought that the Russian vehicle's appearance signalled a full-scale invasion, but the anxious looks quickly turned to cheers once they saw their leader lean out of the driver's window and yodel in delight.

Immediately on his return to the barracks Bond contacted the SBS base at Poole and recounted his tale. He was frustrated at not being able to contact M directly, and asked the SBS to forward his concerns. A relieved Pastinen whispered that the Northern Command Headquarters at Oulu had reported no further incursions across the border. Now Bond was luxuriating in a piping hot bath at the officers' sauna and looking forward to a hot meal and a drink or three. No further incursions: so the trespass had been a one-off. Just what had gone on out there? Regulation troops replaced by Spetsnaz; a determined sally across the border; the aerial reconnaissance and, oddest of all, the Russians' refusal to shoot. A lot of effort had gone into crossing the border. To what end? A splash of cold water on his face brought Bond to his senses. Pastinen, wrapped in a huge towel, had propped himself up on the edge of his bath and was regarding Bond with a serious air.

"I asked you if you have ever tasted reindeer meat, but for a moment you were not here. Tell me, James, why did you not return home with your SBS friends?"

"They're not my friends."

"That is no answer."

"I am here because of my work. A man died."

"So. And this man's death," said Pastinen softly. "Was it your fault?"

"Not really. I don't know - possibly. Yes. Yes, it was my fault. A man died because of me."

"I see. You know, a man once died because of me also. It was in the Lapin Sota – what you would call the Lapland War – when Finland turned on Germany in the autumn of 1944. I was still young enough and stupid enough to enjoy war. I was half of a sniper team whose job was to scout the enemy lines and see what fruit we could pick. My partner was more experienced than me – and a better shot. One day we got caught in a snowstorm, very like today's, and managed to wander out of position. It was the type of weather that required a compass to get us home safely. I had the compass when we left base." Pastinen drew the towel tighter around his shoulders. "It's still out there somewhere, God knows where. So we got lost. You can guess the rest – we ran into a German patrol and only I survived." Pastinen stared at the tiled floor.

"Your brother?"

"Ja."

"I'm sorry."

"There is no need to be. I coped with it the Finnish way."

"You drank yourself silly until you were no good to anyone."

"Ja."

"And after that?"

"After that comes the difficult part." Pastinen leaned over Bond and raised an enormous bunched fist. "You make sure you never lose your compass again. You understand me, James?"

"I think so, Ari."

"Then what is there to worry about?" The fist became an admonitory finger. "I know you are no simple sailor, Commander Bond." He held up both hands. "But I will not ask more. We Finns are renowned for our good manners." Pastinen rose from his perch and ladled cold water onto a pile of hot stones. The room disappeared under a hot blanket of steam. A disembodied voice rang clear. "But it is important you follow Finnish customs in these matters. And none of that Cossack rubbish. Tonight, we drink Kossu!"


	15. Chapter 8 - Rush Job

RUSH JOB

Aeronautical companies, anxious to sell their wares to sceptical air force pursers, invariably try to blind their potential saviours with facts and figures: payload, range, speed, altitude ceiling and so on – the salesmen's usual litany of faster, higher, stronger. They also, reflected Bond, invariably failed to mention the deafening noise unleashed by their metal progeny. He looked contemptuously at the lined interior of the RAF Hastings ferrying him back to Britain. The drab, quilted fabric, some engineer's sop to soundproofing, was woefully inadequate for the task. The incessant hum from the Hastings' four Bristol Hercules engines seemed to resonate somewhere between his eyes. It was just his luck not to get a Bristol Britannia, which grateful aircrews had dubbed the "Whispering Giant". There were rumours of a new transport, the Hercules, which Bond hoped might lower the attritional rate of deafness suffered by the RAF's unscheduled passengers. Anything had to be better than this infernal humming. The flight deck door opened and Bond saw a patch of blue before it was blocked by the appearance of the flight engineer, who made his way to the sole passenger on the cavernous transport plane. Bond instinctively nodded in recognition. Bad mistake. Black flecks spotted his vision. He recognised the symptoms of a particularly dense hangover combined with flying at an altitude of just under 10,000 feet. His aching cranium was losing this particular battle of Hastings.

"Are you alright, sir?" yelled the freckled flight engineer.

"Nothing a bullet couldn't cure," grimaced Bond.

Lord, was his hangover that obvious? The engineer grinned and carefully weaved his way back to the galley squashed between the radio area and forward bulkhead. The RAF seemed to fuel its aircrews with mug after mug of milky tea. Bond wished fervently for a Bloody Mary – with beef tomato juice for that extra curative kick. He looked through the small porthole window and saw nothing but a tarpaulin of pallid cloud lying under a white sun. At least the clouds were low enough to forego wearing an oxygen mask.

Normally the scoured blue sky would have cheered Bond, but today he grimaced and turned away. Despite his position above the clouds he definitely felt under the weather – and small wonder when the endless knocking at his cabin door had begun an hour before dawn. The Finnish corporal's disdainful expression had told him that his appearance was unsavoury at best. Apparently Bond was to leave for Britain immediately. A piercing blast from a jeep horn signalled the arrival of the man from Station F. Bernard Fforbes ("with two F's") had travelled through the night to get there and let Bond know it. For his part, Bond was hungover, tired, and in no mood to sympathise. There had been just enough time for a hot shower – he had had his fill of the cold – a mouthful of last night's coffee, a hurried thanks and goodbye to an ashen-faced Ari (who tossed a pack of Tyomies to him as a farewell gesture), and then the jeep had skated to Oulu, where the Handley Page Hastings was already waiting on the runway.

The journey to the airport passed by in a short eternity. On the way there, Fforbes's nasal voice briefed Bond, hiccupping each time the jeep hit what seemed to be every rut and pothole in Finland.

"M has ordered a lock-down," shouted Fforbes over the car's whining heater. "I presume you know about our security problem?"

Bond grunted in assent.

"The latest news is that all senior Government officials are to receive unofficial tails, and surveillance of Russian and Chinese embassies has been doubled. We've had to recall a lot of personnel from Stations everywhere – effectively the Service is operating at half strength. If you ask me, we're cutting our nose off to spite our face."

Bond wasn't so sure. M must be desperate. Better a tight, though weakened, Service than an expansive, leaky one.

Fforbes continued shouting, his eyes fixed ahead. Bond wondered if he was deliberately aiming for the worst parts of the road. "If the leak is down to a foreign subject, and there's no guarantee of that, we have to catch the culprit red-handed or there'll be a hell of a stink – abuse of diplomatic privileges, tit-for-tat expulsions from Moscow and so on. You've been pulled off training exercises because you're the nearest suitable agent for the North Scottish coast."

Thanks for the compliment, thought Bond. "Surely there must be someone nearby?"

"You'd think so, but Five has got its hands full looking after London, all airports and major ports. We're stretched to the limit."

"Have you heard about yesterday's border excursion?"

"I got a call from London late last night. No-one seems to know anything, but it's yet another example of the security problem. We keep getting out fingers burned and don't know why. I think your report was the last straw for M, hence the lock-down."

At least M knew he was alive. He was still in high dudgeon, but the assignment, however minor, was a small step up the evolutionary scale.

Fforbes reached under his seat, retrieved a card folder and gave it to Bond. Inside was a grainy photograph of two middle-aged men seated at a restaurant table. The unlovely, balding man on the left of the picture seemed to be toasting his tubby friend. Bond wondered if he was saluting the man's nerve in wearing what was, despite the print's poor quality, an obvious hairpiece.

"The picture's the only one I had in the Helsinki office," bawled Fforbes. "Lucky old you gets to spend a quiet weekend at the ancestral home of Sir Francis Denbigh, a senior Minister in the F.O. He's the ugly one. He seems to own half of Caithness – Idlerave House is clearly marked on most maps of the area. It's right on the north coast – plenty of fresh air and bracing walks, I suspect. You're to be Charles Paxton, a newly transferred under-secretary. The Minister has already told Denbigh that you're on your way with the unexpected work. Denbigh is good friends with an aide at the Russian embassy, one Vladimir Topolski, who is staying for the weekend, so you get to kill two birds with one stone. He's the one with the dubious hair. A Five man will meet you once you reach Edinburgh. He'll give you the necessary paperwork. Transport has been arranged."

"And what do I do once I get there?"

"You baby-sit."

Bond sat sulking in silence for the rest of the journey, half-listening to Fforbes drone on about how he deserved a posting to warmer climes. If there was one thing that any intelligence agent, any soldier (hell, any dinner lady) loathed, it was a lack of preparation. Going onto a live job, blind, under prepared and hazy of details, was every agent's nightmare. In his time, Bond had undertaken many jobs: surveillance, collection, escort, hard jobs, dirty jobs, jobs of all kind. The one type of job he really detested was the one he had just been given – a rush job. But it was progress of a sort. At least he was working again.

The Hastings' engines finally relented at RAF Leuchars. An unmarked police car sped Bond around the Firth of Forth to a dank police station in Edinburgh's Old Town. He grabbed what purported to be a ham sandwich from the station canteen, ate it, regretted it, and recuperated with the crossword of the Daily Express. A young constable found him pondering the clue "bipolar evening wear (6)", and escorted him to an interview room with only a couple of chairs and a well-worn table for company. After a short wait spent staring at a peeling "Guard Your Valuables" poster, Bond heard a knock on the door and a man walked in carrying a trilby in one hand and a large red briefcase in the other.

"Mr Paxton? I'm from the other firm. You can call me Smith."

They both smiled at the perfunctory alias. Bond evaluated the mackintosh-clad man from MI5. Sandy hair, leathery complexion, thin moustache, upright bearing; probably ex-army but without the languages needed for overseas work. Smith placed the briefcase on the rickety wooden table. Bond had seen something similar in cinema newsreels of the Chancellor standing outside No.11 on Budget Day. The Ministerial box was covered in red leather; its top bore a portcullis, richly embossed in gold, above the letters H.M.G. With a deep click that reminded Bond of the sound made only by the better type of car door, Smith opened the box. Bond pulled out a disturbingly thick wedge of documents and flicked through them. To his intense dismay, all seemed to be written in the specialised and tiresome language known as Mandarin English.

"How on earth am I going to read this little lot?"

"No need. Just take a dekko at the titles and sub-headings when you get the chance, so you sound as though you know what you're talking about. Your only real job will be to find the dotted lines and say 'Sign here, Minister.'"

"And if he wants to know about Paragraph (ii)b, Sub-section 4 of the 1953 Parking Ticket Act? What then?"

Smith chuckled. "You'll have to wing it, I'm afraid." He reached into his mackintosh and gave Bond a thick white envelope. "Here's a letter from the F.O. confirming your identity and security clearance." Unlike some of his MI5 colleagues, Smith was mercifully co-operative.

"Thanks. I've got the basics on our man, but can you tell me anything else about him?"

"He seems like your typical time-serving politician. Not one for rocking the boat. Probably sliding gently into retirement and a seat in the Lords. Solid marriage, no children. No vices, as far as we know. Typical landed gentry pursuits – hunting, shooting, fishing and the like." Smith led Bond through a succession of corridors and eventually outside to a gloomy walled yard full of police cars, motorcycles and vans.

"There's a cable in the glove box from your people. Rather a nice car, that," said Smith, gesturing to a car tucked in a secluded corner of the yard. He gave Bond a key and fob. "One other thing. Denbigh's chief passion is wildlife, I hear – likes everything from butterflies to elephants, that sort of thing. It takes all sorts, I suppose."

"It does indeed. Thanks for your help." They shook hands and the Five man returned thankfully to the warmth of the station.

Bond turned to his new transport and scowled. What the hell? The light blue Jaguar XK140 Coupé sat incongruously between a Black Maria and an even blacker Wolseley 6/90 with a brass bell on its front bumper. Bond walked around the car, disdain writ large on his face. Though he appreciated the sinuous lines of the gleaming bodywork, in Bond's opinion the Jaguar was the preserve of playboys, movies stars and general flashabouts. He had duelled a few times along the Kent coast with Jaguar drivers who had very little idea how to race and who usually got badly beaten whenever they tried their hand. The XK140 may have been the fastest production car in the world at one time, but Bond's Bentley could still throw gravel in its face on a good day. More importantly, the car did not sit easily with his cover as a middle-ranking civil servant. With a curse, he wrenched open the door, slid into the driving seat and slammed the door shut. Glancing moodily at the expanse of walnut and leather, Bond opened the glove box to find the message from London.

PAXTON UNIVERSAL EXPORT CARE REPS DEPARTMENT EDINBURGH STOP

HOPE TRANSPORT SUFFICIENT AT SHORT NOTICE STOP NEW SAMPLES IN GLOVEBOX COLON FIRST ITEM HANDLE WITH CARE COMMA SECOND ITEM ESSENTIAL AVOID BRIGHT LIGHTS CITY REPEAT AVOID BRIGHT LIGHTS STOP HAVE PACKED NEW BRASSIE AND BALLS COMPLIMENTS SALES DEPARTMENT ENDIT

Bond grunted at the apologetic tone of Q Branch's message. It seemed that the Service car pool had been drained and he was left with the dregs. He reached into the glovebox and extracted a small blue leather case. Inside the case sat two silver cufflinks in the shape of a teardrop. Bond gingerly held one of the cufflinks in front of the car's vanity light. The point of the teardrop glinted wickedly. He took the cable from Q Branch and dropped it onto the cufflink. The quiet interior of the Jaguar heightened the hiss of the paper splitting in two. Bond let slip a low whistle and looked at the silver teardrop with new respect. Probably edged with titanium or diamond. He carefully replaced his own Dunhill pair with the new links, making sure the points of the teardrops pointed up his arm lest a careless handshake took off a man's finger.

Further investigation of the car's glovebox led to a heavy black leather case. Bond snapped open the top. Yes, Koch & Wessler night goggles. He turned the Jaguar's ignition key and enjoyed the powerful rumble bouncing off the courtyard's seeping walls. The needle of the fuel gauge leaned reassuringly to the right. A full tank. Good. The brassie and balls would have to wait. Bond released the clutch and drove out of the police station, waited for a gap in the traffic, and speared the Jaguar in the direction of central Edinburgh. He indulged in small talk with his new car, testing it out on the short sprints between traffic lights and getting used to the gearbox and brakes. While not ideal, the Jaguar proved itself nimble in traffic. Bond took pleasure in listening to the blipping exhaust as he executed a nimble racing change from first to third gear and growled across the Royal Mile. He gunned the car across North Bridge, swung past the fairytale Balmoral Hotel on to Princes Street and reined in the Jaguar as he reached the giant Gothic fruit strainer of Sir Walter Scott's monument.

Halfway down what is commonly known as the most beautiful high street in the world – or at least the only one with a castle to one side of it – Bond drew alongside the stately galleon that is Jenners Department Store. Suppliers of goods to generations of tweed-clad Morningside and New Town ladyfolk, Jenners is the _ne plus ultra_ of Edinburgh respectability. Bond was not keen on buying ready-made clothes but time was short. A rush job it would have to be. To his surprise, he enjoyed the air of quiet efficiency in the menswear department as he stocked up on dress shirts, thick jumpers and calf-length socks before purchasing two cartons of Senior Service, not having the stomach for any more of Ari's acrid Tyomies and their fiddly cigarette holders. Remembering something May, his Scottish housekeeper, had once told him in hushed tones, Bond fought through the fug of perfume on the lower floors to the food hall and was delighted to find what he thought would supply more than adequate protection against the cutting Scottish gales.

With his haul safely stowed in the boot, Bond looked forward to giving the XK140 her head on the long road north. He decided to avoid the traffic by weaving through the acme of Georgian town planning behind Princes Street. New Town's succession of noble crescents, avenues and tricky corners brought out the devil in him. He whipped onto a long, broad avenue, the roar of the exhaust reverberating off pilasters, porticos and pedestrians, and was just about to surge past a trundling Austin A30 when a looming silhouette on the horizon caused him to lift his foot from the accelerator. Just visible over a forest of streetlamps and chimney pots was a blast from the past: Fettes. The fleeting appearance of the French Revival granite hedgehog that was Fettes College caught him completely unawares. What was that awful school song he had sung in a cheerfully off-key manner? Floreas Fettesia, that was it. He hadn't thought of that in years. How did it go? _And all the winds there are wildly love you._ A wry smile formed on his face as he remembered the school motto: Industria_._ It was no nonsense and in the Scottish manner. None of those elegantly turned public school phrases for Fettes. Had he really worn the sky-blue blazer of Glencorse House? He remembered with a keen sense of nostalgia the white stitching across his breast of _Nunquam Onus_, which Bond had always interpreted as "No Passengers". Did he have time to glide past? Bond came to a halt at a zebra crossing and watched a saturnine milkman cross the road. The school was ahead, the direct route out of Edinburgh to his left. With a sigh, he flicked the wheel left and put his foot down. The welcome sight of an open road before him drew Bond from his reverie. Time to get back to the job in hand. _Industria_, 007, _industria_.

Away from the slick cobblestones of New Town, Bond drove fast and hard, finding quicker than he would have liked the point where the Dunlop tyres turned from grip to grope. Although the Jaguar was undoubtedly a powerful car, it could prove skittish, even wayward, if not handled with care. Q Branch would have made a lot of discreet improvements before allowing it anywhere near the Service car pool. As a young man, Bond had dislocated his wrist changing from first to third gear in a bad-tempered Riley, and ever since had enjoyed getting his own back. He crashed up a gear and relished the firm yet responsive touch from the gearbox, its close-ratio gears releasing extra torque. Despite adding various concealed compartments (one of which held the new brassie and balls) to the Jaguar, Bond knew that the Service mechanics would have discarded close to 500lbs of weight by replacing the Coventry-fitted bodywork with light-alloy panels. Complement this reduction in weight with a high-compression engine, torsion bars and spoke wheels and the Jaguar became a tiger in wolf's clothing. But as he hurled the car towards the Highlands Bond was disappointed to discover that it tended to drift at high speeds and wallowed most alarmingly when faced with a quick S-bend. Even with all the refinements, the Jaguar still didn't quite qualify as a _voiture de grand sport_. Perhaps Moss and Johnson might prove him wrong under the chequered flag, but Bond grudgingly concluded that Ferrari and BMW had the edge on the black cat at the moment.

He thought of the jousts he had enjoyed on the roads of Europe. If one truly wanted to test a car's worth then the Alps were the only place. The Stelvio was simply brutal on cars and Bond remembered how his Bentley had damn near overheated when tussling with a Porsche in the thinning Swiss air. In fact, he refused to race the precipitous Wurzenpass for fear that his Bentley might never recover from the exertion; many a fine car had boiled dry on the final run-in. As the Jaguar flattened out over a dip in the road, he nevertheless decided that he would have no compunction in thrashing the XK up there. On final reflection he decided on the Dolomites as the acme of sports driving. The combination of matchless scenery and testing roads was unbeatable.

After a scorching drive along the tree-lined banks of Loch Lomond, Bond decided to promote central Scotland to the top five on his personal chart of favourite drives. The pine-scented air blasting through the car window had blown his hangover away somewhere near Glen Douglas. A few miles past Ardlui he spotted a little van selling "Refreshments for the Thirsty Traveller" and pulled into a lay-by. Ignoring the stained tea urn and bottles of fizzy pop on the counter, Bond plumped for a mug of hot chocolate and managed a couple of mouthfuls before his taste buds rebelled. After returning the mug of sludge to the counter while dreaming of a hot glass of gluehwein, Bond lit a Morlands and unfolded an Ordnance Survey map on the Jaguar's ticking bonnet. A wistful look revealed numerous golf courses he would have loved to try out: Musselburgh, Gullane No.1, and the island course of Machrie, of which it was said to have more blind shots than any other course in the world. His forefinger traced the spidery lines of A-roads and B-roads and finally stabbed the map with satisfaction. Waving goodbye to the overcoat-wearing hostess of the "Bide-a-While Roadside Café" with a grim smile and a muttered "Haste ye back soon? Not bloody likely," Bond motored towards one of Scotland's bleakest regions.

Rannoch Moor is one of the few places in the British Isles that retain a sense of pre-industrial Europe. It was once a refuge of the great Clans of Scotland, of Stewarts, MacGregors, MacDougalls and Camerons. Sited a thousand feet above sea level, surrounded by mist-strewn mountains and peppered with countless granite boulders, the moor remains both hostile and isolated. The looming mountain of Schiehallion, known as the Fairy Hill of the Caledonians, stands sentinel over the former home of the Stewarts. Rannoch's many lochs and sandy bays quickly disorientate the unwary traveller in misty weather. No east-west road crosses the 20 miles of peat-bog, which in places is twenty feet deep, ready to suck down the lost pedestrian. Across its vast isolation, the gleaming Jaguar parked by a heather-strewn bank was the only sign of human activity. Bond stubbed out his cigarette and consulted his map again. He had passed the tiny, silent railway station at the edge of the moor some five minutes ago and had come to a halt where the railway ventured out alone across the windswept moor.

Bond opened the Jaguar's boot and ran his fingers under its far lip. After a second or two's searching, he felt a slight depression in the bodywork, pressed firmly and heard a gentle click from the underside of the car. Sitting down on his haunches, Bond teased out a heavy steel tube from an open flap in the dummy exhaust, being careful not to burn himself on the innocuous chassis strut that Q Branch had deviously converted into an exhaust.

Wedging the tube under one arm, Bond trudged over the grass bank separating the road from the railway and began to walk along the permanent way. Bursts of purple heather punctuated the tall grass swaying gently in the dimming afternoon. The bubbling trill of distant curlews was the only accompaniment to the crunch of stones beneath his feet. Bond stopped beside a railway milepost and unscrewed one end of the tube. After slipping the cap in his jacket pocket he tipped the tube and prised out a three-foot long steel rod. Curling his fingers round a tiny leather strap at one end of the gun, he unfolded a telescopic skeleton butt and then felt for the tiny ventral fin that acted as a trigger on the cut-down Winchester. A gentle tap on the trigger elicited the sound all gunmen fear - the dead man's click. Not a hair-trigger, thought Bond, but still a pull of only a few ounces. He extracted a wad of thick sponge padding from the grey tube, and gently unwrapped it to reveal a squat black pipe. By God, a ZF4! German troops had sworn by their superb sniperscopes during Barbarossa. The ZF4 or the Gw ZF4-fach, to give the scope its full title, was nitrogen-charged to prevent fogging in the bitter Russian winters. The last time he had seen one, two Russian soldiers had been arguing fiercely over whether it was worth more than a pair of snug jackboots – the former owner of both items having been in no condition to dispute possession. The scope was coming towards the end of its working life, but it was still as good as anything on the market, and very difficult to trace. Ari would have been pleased.

Bond clipped the scope to the Winchester's stock. At the bottom of the grey tube he found a foam-lined case containing 24 long .308 cartridges. He weighed one in his hand and doubted if Slazenger had ever seen a golf ball like it – the bullet was exceptionally heavy and sported a slightly blue tint. Most likely made from tungsten to lessen wind shear.

He took off his jacket and laid it on the ballast next to the milepost. The jacket's silk lining felt cool on his forearms as he settled into a prone firing position. The first bullet slotted smoothly into the single-loading breech. As a rule, and despite the Armourer's blandishments, Bond disliked detachable magazines for one-man missions because they were difficult to use when prone and made too much noise for safe concealment. After a nightmarish encounter in the smoking shell of the Reich Chancellery_,_ when the skull-like countenance of an aged, crazed _Volkssturmmann_ had hurtled screaming out of the wrecked Court of Honour and scraped his face with a pitchfork, Bond had concluded that just about the only thing in favour of a detachable magazine was that it was an effective blunt instrument in hand-to-hand combat.

Bond brought the scope's rubber eyepiece to bear and looked down the dead straight railway line. The world turned grey as he adjusted to the hue of the scope's glass. A distant milepost appeared near the centre of the scope. Time for a quick calculation. The mileposts were actually posted every quarter mile. One mile was 1760 yards: therefore the post he was looking at was 440 yards away, and the one after it 880 yards distant. Therefore each of the four horizontal dashes on his crosshairs represented 110 yards. The 110 yards dash, thought Bond.

A piebald rabbit ambled across the scope's crosshairs and began investigating the wildflowers growing between the railway sleepers. Bond lined up his sights and then smiled. Not for the pot – let Brer dine in peace. Instead he aimed at the milepost, pleased he could make out the rusty legend "Property of West Highland Railway" underneath the number 28. Bond caressed the scope's tiny traversing and elevating screws and lined up the crosshair on the top half of the number 8, imagining it was the head of a particularly corpulent target. He calmed his breathing and gently crooked his forefinger. A clump of high grass behind the milepost shook and the moor echoed to the bark of the Winchester. The rabbit flashed across the railway track and Bond laughed. He adjusted his sights minutely and was rewarded with a distant clang as the next tungsten bullet clipped a corner off the post. Four shots later, Bond had to admit that though Q Branch had fallen below its usual high standards with his car, the custom-built Winchester was an exceptional rifle. That still didn't change the fact he was having to rush his preparation and, short of shooting a particularly malevolent osprey, he couldn't imagine using the weapon in the field.

Bond collected the empty cartridges and carefully packed the equipment back into its grey steel tube. On his way back to the car, he wondered idly how many railway byelaws he had just broken. His thoughts were broken by a sudden squall of rain that forced him to pull his jacket collar up and break into a trot. By the time the "golf equipment" was safely stored away, Bond was wet, cold, and could feel the beginnings of a ravenous hunger. Finland was still in his legs and the north coast of Scotland was a long drive away. If nothing else, he hoped that Denbigh kept a good table.


	16. Chapter 9 - Second Class all the Way

SECOND CLASS ALL THE WAY

As the Jaguar swept through the gates of Idlerave House its headlights picked out two fairy-tale turrets at each end of a squat medieval manor house. Bond knew enough about the Highlands to name the style as Scottish Baronial, but he had always thought of such towers as gingerbread constructions best suited to the world of Rapunzels and Esmereldas. At one time such towers had a defensive purpose, but those built in the last century were merely stage sets on which to play out an aristocratic fantasy. A cluster of cars at the front of the house forced Bond to park some distance from the building. He carried the ministerial briefcase along the drive, the jolly notes of a Highland reel increasing in volume with each stride towards the building. After smoking too many cigarettes on the journey north, Bond made the most of the frosty night air as he broached the light streaming from the gaping front door. A middle-aged man, resplendent in full Highland dress, stood guard, seemingly oblivious to the biting cold.

"Good evening, sir. Would you be the gentleman from London to see Sir Francis?"

"Good evening. Yes, Mr Paxton."

The man smiled a welcome. "Welcome to Idlerave, Mr Paxton. I'll tell Sir Francis you've arrived. May I take your luggage?"

"Thank you, but no. It's government business."

"Of course, sir. If you'll come this way."

Bond soon realised that 'this way' was not for the faint of heart. The panelled walls of Idlerave's entrance hall were obscured almost entirely by the mounted heads of dozens, if not hundreds, of wild animals. Eyes. Dead, sightless, amber eyes everywhere. Eyes that had once hunted across plains, jungle and tundra now stared glassily at each other, squeezed cheek by jowl when once each would have fought for its territory. The trophies increased in size as they walked down the hall past a cavernous fireplace surrounded by the remains of elephants, lions, and a single black rhino which, to his mind, wore an entirely justified scowl. God, what a morgue! Idlerave seemed to be built on tusks, horns, antlers, fur and feathers instead of stone. Denbigh, the lover of wildlife, must have carved his way clear across Africa. Did taxidermists have a patron saint? If not, he was certainly a candidate for canonisation.

In following the Scotsman, Bond found himself admiring the sparkling sgian dubh, the traditional dagger of the Highlander, which nestled in the hem of his tasselled right sock. He would have liked a closer look at it, but preferred not to tamper with the tradition that said such a knife, once unsheathed, must draw blood before returning to its home. His run of bad luck had to change sometime, but Bond's long-developed experience in gambling matters had warned him off guying traditions whenever possible. Their journey ended at a book-lined room hosting a sputtering fireplace, a handsome leather-topped Georgian desk and a single chair; evidently Sir Francis didn't have many visitors to his study. After attending to the fire, the manservant told Bond that Sir Francis would be with him shortly and left the room. Not sure what he was looking for, Bond quickly searched the drawers of the desk, none of which were locked, only to find nothing but pens, pencils and foolscap paper. He checked the desk's phone for bugs. Clean.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he stood on a magnificent White Siberian tiger rug in front of the fire and pretended to warm his hands. The door opened and Bond turned to greet Sir Francis Denbigh. The laird of the manor was a tall, heavy man dressed in a welter of tartan and lace, but the traditional kilt was nowhere to be seen; instead, Denbigh wore a weskit and tightly tailored leggings in a dyspeptic yellow and brown tartan. A green sash ran across his body from shoulder to hip. Bond suspected the outfit was an aristocrat's botched attempt to retain a vestige of detachment from his fellow Scots. If that was the case then Denbigh had wasted his time, for nature had already provided anyone who met the master of Idlerave with the perfect incentive to keep their distance. Sparse strands of greying hair were plastered across the shiny pate in a risible attempt to imitate a fuller head of hair. If the cranium was neatly managed, then the face below it could only be described as unkempt. Hairs coiled from the flared nostrils like so much barbed wire. The cheeks to either side of the bulbous nose were blue with enlarged veins, and bushy eyebrows threatened to overrun Denbigh's features like an unruly hedgerow. All in all, Bond thought the face would not look out of place mounted in the hall. Two dried-raisin eyes set in a doughy face examined him with undisguised annoyance.

"Good evening, Minister."

"Sir Francis will do. As you say, this is a good evening; a very good evening in fact, and HMG is doing its best to ruin it. Why are you here and why couldn't it wait until next week?"

"We're very sorry about this, Sir Francis. The PM insists on all the papers being signed and ready by Monday afternoon at the latest."

"Does he now?" Denbigh snatched the phone from its receiver and rattled the cradle so savagely that Bond feared he might break it. "Chequers. Private line. I want the PPS." While he waited for the operator to connect the call via the government's private network (which Bond suspected would be monitored, whether M had permission or not), he held out a hand and clicked his fingers.

"Papers?"

Bond gave Denbigh his letter of introduction and steeled himself for a long weekend.

"Is that you, Freddie?" said Denbigh, ripping open the envelope. "Francis here. Now listen – I've got someone here, a Charles Paxton from Whitehall, who's presented me with a lot of urgent paperwork. What's all this about?"

Bond imagined some of the excuses the Prime Minister's Private Secretary had prepared for just such a call: unfortunate that this should happen; unavoidable backlog; the PM was very apologetic; most grateful for your dedication; if you could extend our colleague every courtesy; and other blandishments that would roll off the tongue of a career politician. He was gratified to see Denbigh's expression darken.

"A three-line whip – since when? Well, it's the first I've heard about it. Yes, I'm sure the PM has promised to make it up to me, but in case it's escaped your notice, Freddie, there's not much point putting me on the Honours List. Gilding the lily, if you take my meaning. I'd rather be remembered in the next Cabinet reshuffle. Yes, I'll have the blasted stuff done in time but it really is most inconvenient. And if the PM tells me that I've never had it so good, God help you."

Denbigh dropped the phone onto its cradle and Bond's validation onto the desk. "Seems to be in order, but as you can no doubt hear I am busy with a society ceilidh. I can't possibly work tonight."

"Tomorrow morning, then?"

"Out of the question – Idlerave is hosting a grouse shoot. It will have to be tomorrow afternoon." He tugged a bell pull hanging next to the fireplace, and Bond recognised the smiling Highlander who entered. Compared to him, Denbigh resembled an over-wrapped present.

"This is MacIntyre," drawled Denbigh. "He'll look after you. Fetch Mr Paxton's luggage and take it to the Beams Room, would you, MacIntyre?"

"Which is your car, sir?"

"It's the blue Jaguar," replied Bond.

Denbigh frowned. "The Civil Service's lower grades must have done well in the last pay round. No wonder the Exchequer is always sending me memos about budget restraints."

MacIntyre coughed and began to study his shoe buckles with unwavering concentration. Bond shot Denbigh enough of a dirty look to let him know he had overstepped the mark.

"I have a private income," said Bond evenly.

Denbigh seemed to realise his faux pas. "Of course. Well, seeing as we can't work tomorrow morning, you may as well come to the shoot. You can shoot, I take it?"

"I know which end goes bang, Sir Francis."

"Glad to hear it. I'll see you for breakfast. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to my guests."

Of which, Bond noted, he wasn't one. He dutifully followed MacIntyre along a warren of corridors and stairs. The Victorian Denbighs, in their enthusiasm to leave no plain surface untouched, had festooned the interior of the house with faux-medieval features; dark, heavy furniture crawled with swags and carvings, and each doorway had been worked to resemble a gothic arch. Bond found the constant attempt to attract the eye overwhelming, as though he had eaten too many chocolates. He guessed that his room was in one of the gingerbread towers, and the curved walls of the final staircase confirmed it. MacIntyre unlocked the door and left with Bond's car keys. The room was comfortable enough, though as befitted his uninvited status it was rather Spartan – which, after the visual assault from the rest of the building, came as a welcome relief. It also pleased him because it meant there were few places for hidden microphones and cameras. An inspection of the phone, lamp and light fittings revealed nothing untoward. But then, Bond chided himself, why would there be anything? He was staying at the ancestral home of a government minister, not a shabby hotel room in a border town.

MacIntyre returned with Bond's luggage. "Not our best room, sir, but the house is rather full tonight. You've no doubt worked out why we call this the Beams Room," he said, pointing to the low ceiling. "It's traditional that on your first night here you count the roof beams and make a wish."

"Does it work?"

"I've never slept here, sir, so I wouldn't know. Now, you must be hungry – I'll see what I can do."

MacIntyre left and Bond looked out of the faux-Gothic window at the moonlit scene below him. Light from the ground floor spilled onto the lawn, and Bond could hear whoops and laughter accompanying the cheerful rhythms of a pipe band. Most hosts would have insisted that an unexpected arrival join the party immediately, but it seemed that Sir Francis was less accommodating. Bond decided to make the best of it. He turned from the window and spent the next few minutes cramming the governmental papers like a panicking schoolboy. If Denbigh asked any awkward questions tomorrow – well, wing it he would.

A knock at the door announced MacIntyre's return with a tray bearing his evening meal: a plate of beef and beetroot sandwiches and a glass containing a finger of scotch. The point was made – it was going to be second-class all the way. MacIntyre proceeded to turn down the bed's thick eiderdown, draw the curtains and tidy the room generally. By the time he had finished, Bond had emptied his glass, more in anger than from thirst.

"I'm sorry, sir. The kitchen is very busy at the moment," mumbled MacIntyre, obviously embarrassed at his master's poor hospitality. "But if you'll permit me," he eased a flask from his waistcoat pocket and poured Bond an exceedingly generous measure, "the East Tower suffers from damp and it's going to be a raw night."

The Highlander turned and left before Bond could thank him properly. Bond smiled. MacIntyre was the real Scotland, not the cold fish whose flag fluttered limply over the front door. Bond discarded the beetroot (it had been a pet hate since childhood) and devoured his meal. The sandwiches were surprisingly good; the best Scottish beef, despite American claims for Longhorn, was the best in the world. MacIntyre's heathery whisky was the perfect accompaniment. Bond bent over the papers once more and concentrated hard for the next hour, at the end of which he concluded that bureaucracy, not money, was the root of all evil. Tossing the papers in the governmental briefcase with relief, he picked up the crumb-laden plate and headed down the winding stairs.

All spies (and the better class of burglar) hold dear the humble dinner plate. Whether made of bone china or the roughest clay, a plate is a passport that will allow the holder past guarded doors and down forbidden corridors. If a guard sees a man walking towards him bearing a meal then the guard naturally assumes that the stranger is on the staff. If challenged, the alert intruder will say (if the plate is laden) that he has a meal for the prisoner/officer/general manager. The flustered guard will often open the door, fearful of delaying his superior's meal. If the plate is empty then the unfamiliar yet thoughtful member of staff is simply returning his plate to the kitchen. If the guard proves sceptical, the spy will fall back on the old standby and claim that he is lost. Should all else fail, the resourceful spy will simply hit the guard with the plate.

Bond doubted that it would come to that, but the plate was still a useful prop that would allow him to explore while politely returning it to the harried kitchen staff. He rapidly searched various bedrooms and studies on the first floor, not really knowing what he was looking for; but old habits died hard, and it was always best to get the lie of the land. Each room seemed just like the one before it – ornate, if gloomy, chambers and corridors that could be found in similarly vaunting buildings all over the country. The only thing Bond had discovered during his fruitless search was a violent dislike of olive fleur-de-lys on ruby wallpaper. A corridor spiked with the inevitable horns and antlers led him to a door, from behind which came music and laughter. Bond gently opened the door.

He found himself on a gloomy gallery overlooking a ballroom where the ceilidh was in full swing. In one corner of the room three pipers regaled the gathering with a selection of gay tunes. Purple-faced grandees and their chubby wives reeled and jigged across the floor amid raucous laughter and a theatrical slapping of thighs. It amused Bond to see how the Victorian concoction of Highland dress transformed bank managers, doctors and councillors into latter-day Rob Roys. For once, the men were the peacocks.

And suddenly Bond knew that he too was being observed. He turned to look at the far end of the gallery. Out of the shadows stepped the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" she said, gesturing to the revelry below.

"Most enjoyable things are."

Bond's reply had been entirely automatic, for the better part of him was occupied in drinking in the vision before him. She wore a green silk ballgown with a plunging cleavage that framed a dazzling emerald necklace. Her eyes glittered with intelligence. She was tall, poised, and Bond guessed she would be just as at home in a simple skirt and blouse as tonight's magnificence. He continued the catalogue: probably on the cusp of thirty and in full bloom; high, almost jutting, cheekbones, an imperious nose, flawless skin, and a mouth that could purse into aloofness, but at the right moment might yield with fervour. Her hair was a honeyed waterfall, its sheets cascading alongside the slim, perfectly sculpted neck. She reminded him of those little doll ballerinas that turned to a tinkling tune in millions of schoolgirls' jewellery boxes; a fairy-tale princess for a fairy-tale setting. Bond concluded that her innate grace and authority would have stood out a mile whatever society she had been born into: she was one of nature's aristocrats. But in the dark of the gallery there was something about her appearance that he couldn't quite fathom.

"I'm Lady Denbigh. Do you find the ceilidh a little rumbustious, Mr - " One quizzical eyebrow arched deliciously.

"I'm…Paxton, Charles Paxton." Dear God, she had nearly unmanned him. Knuckle down. "I'm here with some unscheduled work from Whitehall for your husband, sad to say."

"How tiresome. Duty calls, I suppose." The eyebrow arched once more. "You don't strike me as a Charles."

"No? What do you think I should be called?"

"Something blunter. John or Mark perhaps."

"Sounds rather biblical to me. But if ever I change my name I shall remember your advice, Lady Denbigh."

"Thank you, Charles. But please call me Milly – all my friends do. I hope your room is comfortable?"

"I'm in the Beams Room."

"Oh, not that dreary old place! I do apologise. My husband is rather preoccupied. I shall talk to him and see if we can find you something less punitive." As she spoke she waved to her husband below. Denbigh was drinking in a corner with a fleshy, dark-haired man whom Bond recognised as Topolski from the photo in Fforbes's file. Denbigh waved back rather stiffly and gave Bond a cursory nod. Topolski raised his glass. Milly sucked her lower lip, a childish habit that Bond found endearing. Less attractive was the spasm of anxiety that crossed her face.

"I think I'd better join my husband. I am the hostess after all. Please enjoy your stay at Idlerave, Mr Paxton. Good night."

Back to formality again. Curious. "I'm sure I will. Good night, Lady Denbigh."

She smiled, and left through a door at the far end of the balcony, her ballgown slipping through the closing door like an emerald sail rounding a headland. Well, that was it, decided Bond. He had discovered the flawless woman. What whim of nature was it that arranged features so perfectly as to be unimproveable? Yet the difference between plainness and radiance was minimal. One could meet a thousand women, all with eyes, nose and lips pleasingly arranged, yet of that thousand only a hundred might be alluring, only ten might be truly beautiful – and none of them might come close to that unimpeachable acme of loveliness. And who could say if she was truly beautiful? Other men might consider her merely striking. Was it something in Bond's genes, his bones, that resonated when brought into contact with her? But who cared about Darwinism when such creatures walked the earth? Tonight, he was the beholder and he had seen beauty.

It took Bond a minute or two to come to his senses and begin exploring the building once more. A modest door halfway down the gallery hid a narrow staircase, which eventually brought him to a scullery where maids and butlers wrestled with a small mountain range of washing-up. Everyone was busy apart from a blond, deeply tanned man who sat nursing a whisky at the scullery's broad table.

"May I leave this here?" asked Bond, holding up the plate.

"The sink's better," muttered the man as he raised his glass. Bond couldn't place the accent. Was there a trace of Africa in the voice? MacIntyre, now clad in a thick overcoat and a woolly hat, appeared through a side-door. He smiled his thanks when he saw Bond add his plate to the pile of pots and pans.

"Going somewhere, MacIntyre?"

"Just stretching my legs, Mr Paxton. I've got to look out for poachers otherwise the local lads will be touting fresh pheasant and salmon in every pub in Caithness. Will you no join me, Schaalk?"

The morose man at the table poured himself another glass. "Not my kind of sport, but thank you all the same."

"Give them both barrels from me," called Bond to the retreating figure. He suspected the Scot was relieved to get away from the hothouse atmosphere of Idlerave. Bond turned to the morose drinker. He wanted to know where that tan came from.

"Forgive me, but I can't quite place your accent. Would it be South Africa or Rhodesia?" ventured Bond.

"Further north."

"Are you on the staff here?"

"Here? No, I'm an assistant to Mr Topolski."

"Who?"

"A Russian gentleman. He's good friends with Lord Denbigh."

And back off, stranger, went the unspoken warning. Bond looked at the man at the table with renewed interest. He was a few years younger than Bond and some pounds lighter; lean yet toned like a male ballerina. It wasn't unknown for diplomats to be accompanied by attractive, lithe young men, purportedly as personal assistants or dogsbodies, but there had been no mention of homosexual tendencies in Topolski's file. Still, Topolski was unmarried, and from what he had seen of him at the ceildih he didn't seem to have any great interest in the opposite sex.

"Perhaps I'll have the pleasure of getting to know him this weekend," said Bond, pretending to stifle a yawn. "I didn't catch your name."

"Schaalk. You would be – ?"

"Charles Paxton. I'm here to take up Lord Denbigh's valuable time – which reminds me, it's getting late and I have work to do. Good night."

Schaalk waved a hand and raised his glass again. The conversation ended, Bond rated it a one-all draw and returned to his room. He stayed up late, cramming the feasibility studies, reports and proposals supplied by the Home Office like a panic-stricken schoolboy. As far as he could make out, he might be able to get away with giving Denbigh a brief précis of each item, followed by the usual Civil Service obsequies of "Sign here, Minister" and "If you would, Minister". After an hour's speed-reading and skimming Bond pushed aside the red leather case with a racking yawn. The ceilidh had ended to a slamming of car doors and cheerful blasts of car horns, and now the house was quiet. Bond brushed his teeth, more than ready to get in a few hours' sleep. After a protracted struggle, familiar to anyone who has stayed in a stately home, with an arcane plumbing system, Bond left the bathroom and zeroed in on what looked like a very comfortable bed. His steps were halted by the muffled noise from below. He opened the door. The sound of raised voices was floating up the staircase. Bond crept down the stairs, keeping his feet close to the wall to avoid any creaking floorboards. He followed the noise down a thickly carpeted corridor, turning right at a ticking grandfather clock, and tip-toed until his progress was stopped by a craggy oak door bearing what Bond assumed was the Denbigh coat-of-arms: a shield depicting a wild boar supported by two lions rampant. The angry, slurred voice of Denbigh confirmed his suspicion that he was standing outside the laird's chamber. Bond could hear each word quite clearly.

"You little slut!" shouted Denbigh. The unmistakable crack of a hard slap sounded on the other side of the door. "I saw the way you were looking at him. I leave you for a moment and before I know it you're flaunting yourself like a cheap whore. Don't drag my name through the mud. Understand?"

A barely audible "Yes, Francis," came from Milly. There was a long silence and Bond had turned to leave when a fresh report of hand on flesh produced a sobbing cry from Milly. Bond had slapped and spanked women before, for both business and pleasure, but there had been too long a pause between the blows – their motive was not anger or sensuousness but sadism. His sharp rap on the door was foolhardy but he could not help himself.

Denbigh's flushed face appeared at the door. His exertions had caused the thin strands of hair stretched across his scalp to spring loose like an unfurled fan. Bond caught a glimpse of Milly kneeling on the large bed, her silhouetted body clearly visible through a diaphanous nightgown. Her pale face still bore the roseate traces of the last vicious blow. Even in his anger Bond could still feel something nagging at him. There was something unusual about her. What was it?

"What is it?" growled Denbigh.

"Oh - I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, Sir Francis, but could you possibly tell me what time is breakfast tomorrow? In all the hurry, I forgot to ask your man when to get up." It was difficult not to stare at the Rokeby Venus behind Denbigh.

"In this house we breakfast at seven sharp. Good night."

He closed the door in Bond's face. Bond listened for a few seconds, heard nothing, shrugged and returned to his room. Marital tiffs were not his problem, thank God. What went on behind the nuptial door was sacrosanct, he supposed, but why on earth women put up with treatment like that was beyond him. The sight of his bed provoked a racking yawn and a realisation that he was chasing shadows. He must get some rest and stop thinking about things that didn't concern him.

Bond slipped beneath the bed's thick eiderdown and tried to relax, but was irritated to find sleep eluded him. The last two days had taken their toll on his body and now he was over-tired from cramming the ministerial notes. His mind kept slipping a gear and over-revving. With a sigh, he put his hands behind his head and stared at the moonlit ceiling. He counted the thick oak beams above him (five), closed his eyes and made a wish. Bond's eyes blinked open again. That was it – eyes. Milly had lovely eyes. One blue. One green. How unusual! So she was flawed after all – much as a flaw increases a gem's lustre. Bond closed his eyes again the better to see the twin orbs. Sleep caught him unawares.


	17. Chp 10 - There are Worse things in Life

**THERE ARE WORSE THINGS IN LIFE**

The next morning found a chilled group of shooters, Bond among them, dispersed under the flanks of a looming mountain and trying to ignore the coarse wind that threatened to blow them across the bare moor. Bond congratulated himself for stocking up at breakfast once he had seen the magnificent but daunting view from the bay window of Idlerave's Morning Room. Denbigh had indulged in small talk, naming the mountain as Ben Maltig and pointing out the line of stone butts among the patches of heather where his guests would soon commence the day's slaughter. Bond suspected he was trying to deflect last night's unpleasantness by appearing full of bonhomie and good cheer; like most bullies, Denbigh was at pains to appear in public as the pleasantest of men. The 'hail fellow, well met' routine was already beginning to grate, especially given that his wife had not appeared at breakfast.

Topolski most certainly had appeared at breakfast, but only intermittently from behind the spread canvas of The Times while he waited for his order of "one egg, boiled for no longer than necessary" to arrive. Bond was fond of reading the morning newspapers over breakfast, but thought it poor manners to continue the practice in company. He made a point of asking Topolski to pass a salt-cellar just for the satisfaction of making the Russian lower his barricade. His attempts at conversation produced nothing more than a few non-committal grunts in response; evidently Topolski was not a morning person, but Bond took a dislike to the man anyway. At close quarters the Russian resembled his breakfast egg's larger cousin, but with a bird's nest perched improbably on top. His features were crabbed together in a round face, producing in Bond a curious effect, as though he was looking at an adult baby. Topolski's file was unexceptional, his security rating low; as a cultural liaison officer to the Russian consulate in Kensington Palace Gardens, there was no evidence to suggest that he indulged in extra-curricular activities on behalf of his political masters.

The breakfast party was boosted by the arrival of a local J.P., Colonel Thompson, and his wife; Denbigh's less than effusive greeting led Bond to suspect the couple's presence was more a social obligation than a welcome pleasure for the laird of Idlerave.

Bond grudgingly admitted that, to give Denbigh his due, Idlerave's guests had breakfasted in style from a table groaning with irresistible fare; he had feasted on toast slathered with butter and thick-cut marmalade, two succulent kippers, one double-yoked egg, numerous well-grilled rashers of smoked bacon, and as much white pudding as prudence allowed. The only disappointment came from his request for coffee; he suspected that Cook had dredged up a dusty jar of instant coffee from the bowels of the house larder, resulting in the appearance of an undrinkable potion best kept for tarring roads.

Once out on the moors, Denbigh lent Bond a superb over-and-under Purdey, with the instruction "try not to shoot anyone". Everyone had drawn lots and found their butts nestled among clumps of heather. MacIntyre was to be his loader. Bond listened patiently to the Scotsman's instructions and made sure to appear inexperienced. After a couple of practice runs, with the ghillie swiftly breaking the gun and swapping spent cartridges for new, Bond knew he was in safe hands. The nearby snap of a closing gun breech from the butt to his left was followed by the appearance of Topolski's head, clad in an absurdly large tweed cap, over the brow of the butt. His companion, whom Bond recognised as Schaalk, looked very much at home next to him.

A distant shrill whistle signalled the start of the first drive. A burst of wind across the moor carried the clamour of the beaters' voices. Bond marvelled as a brown covey shot from the previously dormant heather and flashed overhead. He saw a flash of flecked brown wings, heard them flap and ripple like a thumbed pack of cards, and then gunshots crashed around his ears as the party opened fire. Bond thought grouse shooting a pointless pastime, preferring his target to be able to fight back, and intentionally ignored any low grouse, aiming only at the high-flyers. The ensuing hour's pointless shooting and missing was beginning to bore him greatly until he hit on the tactic of shooting as closely as possible to the grouse without actually hitting one. A twinge from his right shoulder provoked an envious glance at the padded leather patches on Topolski's jacket. He thought it time to call a halt after MacIntyre whispered encouragement when he grazed an unfortunate bird. His hands were numb from the chill, and MacIntyre, glum that his gentleman seemingly couldn't hit the proverbial barn door, looked half-frozen. Bond dug into a jacket pocket and fished out a flask he had last seen sitting on a shelf in the Men's Department of Jenners. He took a swig and handed the flask to MacIntyre.

"Thank you, Mr Paxton. Badly needed. It has quite a kick, no?"

"It certainly does. It's called the King's Ginger Liqueur and was recommended to me by a little old lady from Glen Orchy." Bond felt warmth trace its way through him and silently blessed his irreplaceable housekeeper. Perhaps he would send Ari some in revenge for the Kossu. "Though I think it would probably be best as a base for a champagne cocktail."

"Oh, I'll be sure to try it," said MacIntyre with a twinkle in his eyes.

Their laughter drew disapproving looks from Topolski and Schaalk, both of whom looked frozen by the searing wind. Eventually the party stopped for a picnic lunch and everyone hurriedly scuttled to the warmth of various vehicles. Bond ended up sitting, as he had intended, in the back of a Land Rover with Milly, their legs hanging over the rear flap. Lunch was a generous helping of grilled trout with crème fraîche and lime dressing. MacIntyre brought round a light Bordeaux and filled their glasses. Bond, his belly and glass full, looked out across the moor to Ben Maltig and reflected that there were worse things in life than sitting next to a beautiful woman on a crisp autumn day in the Highlands. Even if his being here was a waste of time, he much preferred it to spending another lunchtime in the muggy Service canteen wondering why the entire country seemed to live on boiled cabbage and nondescript beef. He watched Milly's blonde hair refuse to stay entirely under the control of a gingham headscarf, and thought she looked delicious. Her eyes were invisible behind a pair of Ray-Bans. An oily sheen on her left cheek betrayed thick make-up that covered the mark left by last night's assault.

"I'm sorry I interrupted you and your husband last night. I didn't mean to intrude."

"That's quite alright. The first night in a strange house is always a bit awkward. Did you obey MacIntyre's strictures about counting the beams in your room?"

Bond smiled. "Lord, yes. I've learned it's always wise to follow instructions from wizened Scots servants. Let's see, what did I say? Oh, yes. To whom it may concern: please let me shoot straight."

Milly's gay laugh came as a pleasant surprise, and Bond found himself wondering about the beautiful woman sitting close to him. With her hair wrapped away, her torso bound in heavy tweed and her eyes covered by the sunglasses, she seemed to be almost a prisoner of the moors. He wanted to see here eyes but, more than that, he wanted to take her somewhere warm, perhaps for a swim in the blue water off Cap Ferrat, where after a walk under the shade of the umbrella pines he would introduce her to salade niçoise and socca,and then – who knew? He decided to press on.

"I've also been thinking about adopting a new name – I prefer Mark to John."

"A good choice. I should confess that Milly isn't my real name. My real name is Daphne."

Bond looked at her in mock horror. "You could never be a Daphne."

"Oh, it's a family name. But as soon as I was old enough I asked for another one. I'm very practical, you see. Father was a wildlife enthusiast – he and Francis first met at the varsity ecology society – so he decided on Milly. Short for millipede. Father said it was because I always kept one foot on the ground."

"So you're named after a rather big creepy-crawly."

He was pleased to see her laugh. He had a feeling she was out of practice, and was not surprised when she abruptly stopped laughing, as though she had done something wrong. Milly took off her sunglasses and now Bond could see that her eyes were stunning. One pupil was a dazzling cobalt blue, the other a dark, luscious green.

"James, thank you for asking about my name and not my eyes. People generally want to talk about nothing else. Shall I get it over with?"

"Please do."

"A few years ago I contracted a mildly degenerative eye disease which is attacking my left retina – which used to be blue as well. Luckily it's harmless, but the diseased retina's pigment changes over time. I used to have a matching set and now I look like a crazed traffic light."

Bond laughed. "But it doesn't affect your sight?"

"No. Lucky me," she said, quickly putting her sunglasses back on, her relaxed posture now tense. A shadow fell across them.

"I think our wildlife is safe from you, Paxton. There's no substitute for pointing your gun in the right direction." Denbigh's voice rang out harshly as he approached the couple from the next car. "Perhaps we should invite you back next year for easier prey. We have terrible trouble with rooks and grey squirrels. Come April, May, the estate usually bags anything up to thirty squirrels and more young rooks than we know what to do with."

Bond ignored the insult. "Perhaps it's me, but I don't think I could bring myself to shoot a squirrel."

"Never mind, there are always plenty of things to shoot at Idlerave. Let's see – grouse and pheasant of course, but we also have snipe – though MacIntyre doesn't approve – woodcock, and more than enough duck to keep Edinburgh's restaurants happy. If your luck's in you can shoot pintail, mallard, teal and, my particular favourite, goldeneye."

"I'll do my best, but the good burghers of Edinburgh may go hungry tonight. Milly has just been telling me about your friendship with her father. May I ask if that is how you two met?"

"Nothing so dedicated, I'm afraid. I was hosting a party on the Debs' circuit as a favour to my friend – I was far too old for that sort of thing myself – and this vision swam into view. So I took advantage of my position of power and monopolised Milly all evening."

I bet you did, thought Bond. So Milly was yet another trophy. Why did so many otherwise intelligent women make such disastrous choices in love?

Suitably refreshed, the shooting party made its way back to the line of butts and the moors resounded once more to a staccato rhythm of shouting and shooting. Bond decided that he might as well shoot a few birds after all, half out of crushing boredom, half from wanting to save MacIntyre from embarrassment. As luck would have it, his every shot failed to hit the mark, and before long he was swearing under his breath. He risked a look at his ghillie. MacIntyre's expression was studiedly neutral, no doubt from years of chaperoning equally poor shots on icy afternoons.

"Any advice for a blind man?"

MacIntyre smiled and produced a box of cartridges from the depths of his thick tweed jacket.

"If you're going to go for the high grouse, you'll be needing a big pellet to keep a tight pattern at long range. These are 32 gram fives," he said, slipping two shells into Bond's Purdey, "and if you'll take my advice, you won't lead too much. Most of your shots are falling in front of the birds."

Bond smiled his thanks and hefted the rifle to his shoulder, then hesitated and lowered it to his side. Most amateur shooters scan the sky and hold their guns high for far too long, until they are too tired to react when a shot presents itself. It was better to pick a target and then aim. Clusters of panicking birds rose from the heather, but none high enough to interest him. Two hundred yards away a feathered duo exploded from the heather, climbed high and made directly for Bond's position. Bond raised his gun, hoping to cover both birds with a tight shooting pattern, but at the last moment they peeled away from each other like a pair of stunt pilots performing acrobatics. Bond spread his stance and brought down the two grouse in a superb left-and-right, taking the first one sideways and then pivoting to pick off the remaining grouse as it curled behind him. MacIntyre saluted the action with a choice expletive, grinned handsomely, and in one swift motion took the gun from him, ejected the cartridges and reloaded. Bond's aching shoulder was forgotten, the pain overtaken by the sheer pleasure of doing something difficult exceedingly well. He took the proffered gun from MacIntyre, and then flinched as a clump of earth kicked up in front of him. His peripheral vision saw movement to his left. In a reflex action, he dropped to one knee, swivelled and levelled his gun at Topolski. The Russian, a shocked expression on his face, slowly tipped his weapon to the sky. MacIntyre shouted, "Guns down!" and the moor fell quiet. Schaalk pointed to a thick patch of heather in front of Bond, who in the sudden silence heard a gentle rustling.

MacIntyre's voice was at Bond's ear. "Looks like a wee adder. It must have spooked the Russian gentleman."

Bond saw a black comma wind its way through the grass. Topolski and Schaalk climbed out of their butt, the Russian's face white and strained. "My apologies, gentlemen. I thought it was about to strike me."

Schaalk looked at his master with disdain and, crouching low, began to stalk the snake.

"Careful, Mr Schaalk," called MacIntyre. "It's harmless as long as you leave it alone."

Schaalk ignored the ghillie's warning and continued to track the adder. Denbigh, Milly, and the Thompsons came over for a closer look and stayed silent as they watched in fascination. Schaalk's right hand hovered above a tall patch of grass and then, in a blur, it disappeared into the heather. With a triumphant shout, Schaalk stood up and held out his right arm. The adder, held by its tail, bucked and dangled as it tried to bite its captor.

"Throw it away, man," called MacIntyre, a trace of irritation in his voice. "It'll make a good meal for the owls and eagles."

Schaalk grinned and jerked the snake like a whip. The adder's head snapped off with a sound like a pistol shot and landed at Bond's feet. Bond saw the snake's jaw spasm and then judder to a halt.

"On the veldt, the only good snake is a dead snake," said Schaalk, who walked over and picked up the snake's head. He placed it on the palm of his hand for everyone to see. "I'll keep it as a memento. Are you sure it's an adder?"

Bond was surprised to hear Milly speak. "Yes, it's an adder. The black adder can be identified by its vertical pupils; those of the grass snake are round. Your snake is a pure black adder. No dorsal marks are visible." Bond looked curiously at Milly; she seemed reluctant to approach the snake's head, yet she had an intimate knowledge of the reptile. No one could think of anything to say. Few things dampen the mood of a shooting party so quickly as a potentially fatal accident.

MacIntyre cleared his throat. "If we're to resume shooting, sir, it had best be soon. The light is starting to go."

Denbigh took the ghillie's hint. "I think that's enough for today, MacIntyre. Please see to the guns."

With a quick nod, MacIntyre began to collect the arms and ammunition. The shooting party returned to their cars and trucks in silence. Bond walked behind the Russian and his assistant, his eyes fixed on the blond head perched on top of a sinuous, lithe neck. No chance of that snapping off.

The rest of Bond's afternoon was spent bluffing his way through the governmental paperwork. Denbigh signed the ministerial papers without quibbling about their contents (and certainly without reading them), and by the time the last document was sealed Bond felt as though he had been working alongside a grandiose rubber stamp instead of a career politician. Their work came to an end when Denbigh waved away the ministerial box like an Eastern potentate dismissing an unripe dish of dates. Bond was only too happy to take his leave. He took advantage of the lull before dinner to get some rest, after which he conjured a tepid bath from his room's ancient plumbing.

Having spent too many soulless evenings making small talk at various embassies, consulates and stifling officers' messes, Bond had come up with his own analysis of enforced socialising. His theory (which he secretly dubbed Bond's Bore Law) stated that in the absence of gambling, sex, and/or large quantities of alcohol, boredom would inevitably expand to fill any uninspired social occasion. And tonight promised plenty of room for expansion. He sat on the bed and unconsciously went through the routine of reloading his gun, slipping on a holster and practising a draw. A pat of his pockets confirmed his cigarette case and battered lighter were ready for duty. A look in the mirror did not improve his mood, for the dark smudges under his eyes told him that his body was still recovering from Russian hospitality, Finnish alcohol and British bureaucracy. He was undercooked and overtired and, worse, he looked like a real tailor's dummy. Denbigh, a stickler for formality, had insisted his guests dress for dinner; Bond's emergency dinner jacket, bought the day before at Jenners, seemed to have been designed for a species other than Homo sapiens. He felt a twinge of guilt at betraying his tailor in such a fashion. Damnation, did everything have to be second-rate these days? With a final, careful, shoot of his cuffs (the only part of his wardrobe, thought Bond ruefully, that could possibly qualify him as sharply dressed), he left his room with a heavy heart.


	18. Chapter 11 - Parlour Pink

PARLOUR PINK

Bond walked down the stairs and followed the murmur of chatter to the dining room, nodding in passing at Schaalk who, he was curious to note, sat in a hallway chair just outside the impressive dining room doors, idly flicking through a magazine. It seemed that Schaalk was caught in the twilight trap of the British class system: not quite a gentleman, but a cut above the household staff, he was marooned like a broken lift between the metaphorical upstairs and downstairs of Idlerave.

The dining room presented a striking sight. Bond's eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimly lit scene; the only lighting came from two Georgian candelabra of exceptional quality placed at either end of a long dining table draped in a scarlet cloth. The candelabra, glasses and cutlery sparkled like coral reefs set in a blood-red sea. Bond was, if not cheered, then intrigued by the ghostly sight of the gathered company seated on the edge of the red pool; mein hosts, Topolski, and the Thompsons seemed to float in a lake of darkness. Bond could just pick out MacIntyre waiting in attendance on the edge of the gloom.

"Ah, Paxton, just in time," boomed Denbigh from the far end of the long table. Bond apologised for his lateness and took his seat between Colonel Thompson and Milly, who sat at one end of the table opposite her husband. MacIntyre filled Bond's glass and then ladled tomato soup for the diners. Denbigh drank from a horn mounted in chased silver.

"In honour of our guest," said Denbigh, sipping from a horn mounted in chased silver, "I have arranged that the dinner be based on the theme of Mother Russia's national colour."

So that explained why the table looked like a tarted-up scene from a bordello! Topolski laughed and nodded his appreciation. The gathering engaged in the usual dinner party ritual of arranging napkins, praising the food and making small talk. Bond appraised his fellow diners. Colonel Thompson's napkin dabbed constantly at his moustache – which Bond had no doubt he would call his "soup-strainer" – and, a propos of nothing, its owner began to regale the table with an account of his time in Java and his opinion of Dutch colonialism. Bond felt sorry for him. He imagined the old soldier dining on past glories, all too conscious that his best years were behind him and ahead lay nothing more exciting than rheumatism and an electric blanket. How many times in recent years must he have sung for his supper? The anecdote of tracking down Javanese rebels sounded too well oiled, too rehearsed to be anything other than a regular performance.

Opposite Thompson sat the Colonel's wife, patiently smiling and fingering her pearl necklace in mild embarrassment. Bond had known women like her. In her youth she would have enjoyed the rounds of drinks parties, colonial clubs and mixed doubles on tennis courts all over the Commonwealth. Now those days were come to an end, the sun had indeed set on the Empire, and her once-trim figure was gently expanding into the matronly outline that was the preserve of the English matriarch.

Next to Mrs Thompson sat the feline Topolski, a cigarette-holder clenched between his teeth. He wore a ruby cummerbund. A matching handkerchief spilled extravagantly from his well-cut jacket. Bond was amused to see Topolski's fingers tapping the stem of his wineglass as he fought to contain his boredom with the Colonel's tale.

The evening's host sat back in his chair, one arm dangling by his side, the other cradling his wine glass – his was a relaxed posture, designed to remind all present that he was in charge. Denbigh's already florid complexion was particularly evident and Bond suspected that he had been drinking continually for some time. Milly sat demurely at one end of the table, an engaged expression fixed politely on her face as she played the good hostess, nodding and smiling while Colonel Morgan droned on.

At the end of the Colonel's anecdote, Topolski motioned for MacIntyre, who filled the Russian's glass once more. Topolski made a show of holding his glass to the candle flame and nodded approvingly at Denbigh. Bond doubted if Topolski knew what the hell he was looking at, and discreetly held his own glass over the white cuff of his shirt. The merlot was deeply plum-like in the centre, fading to a pleasing scarlet at the rim of the glass. It sat agreeably on the palate, yet was that a surprisingly coarse strain of tannin loitering in the aftertaste? Bond concluded the wine was perfectly drinkable but would stand some improvement. Still, he was enjoying his meal and said so. Denbigh beamed.

"I'm very proud of what Idlerave can place on the table. The green beans and potatoes are from the garden of course, and MacIntyre has basted the estate venison in wild-duck fat."

"This sauce is delicious, Sir Francis," purred Mrs Thompson.

"Thank you. It is my own blend of merlot and deer liver." Mrs Thompson's fork halted in mid-air. Her husband came to the rescue.

"Tell me, Topolski, do you eat this well in Moscow?"

"Perhaps not, Colonel, but then the Russian people share their food. Sir Francis, what do your estate workers eat while we dine on the fruits of their labour?"

Sir Francis chuckled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but they are all entitled to Idlerave salmon."

Topolski slapped the table in triumph. "You see," he smiled, "even Sir Francis recognises the superiority of Communist principles. How else could the common people dine on the finest food?"

Bond could not help but smile. Topolski noticed this and raised an eyebrow. "Have I said something to amuse you, Mr Paxton?"

"Well, it's just that to estate workers, salmon is not a delicacy but more of a staple. I should think they would rather eat beef or lamb." Bond was suddenly overcome with a feeling of loathing for the self-satisfied expression on the smooth round face. "Or would you rather they ate cake?"

Topolski's face flushed. Denbigh shot a warning look at Bond and retrieved the situation.

"Paxton is quite right, Vladimir. A hundred years ago my great-grandfather wasn't the only landowner who had to deal with striking estate workers who were sick of eating salmon more than three times a week."

After the venison came grouse with breadcrumbs and a cherry-red sauce. Mrs Thompson eyed the sauceboat with suspicion.

"Not to worry, madam," intervened MacIntyre. "It's damson-plum sauce."

"Hmm, looks more like a damson in distress," murmured the colonel, to Bond's amusement. The mood of the dinner party improved perceptibly when MacIntyre served dessert.

Denbigh looked pleased with himself and smiled at Topolski. "I hope you enjoy this, my friend. It is bread and butter pudding – traditionally a peasant's dish, but one I first made the acquaintance of during my schooldays."

"Ah, one of these famous public school puddings, yet egalitarian also. Sir Francis, you are a born politician."

Bond concentrated on enjoying the undeniably excellent pudding and hoped that he wouldn't expire from boredom before the end of the evening. An eternity later, it seemed to him, the table was cleared and Topolski signalled to MacIntyre, who reverently handed a bottle to Denbigh.

"Dear friend, you have shown me the warmest hospitality. I can only attempt to show my gratitude with this gift, one of twelve such gifts, from the hearts of the Russian people." Denbigh peered curiously at the label. "My dear Sir Francis, this is a brand new vodka: Stolichnaya – the finest of our national drink."

Bond doubted Topolski drank it in private, knowing that the Politburo preferred pepper vodka. Denbigh raised his glass in tribute. Eventually, mercifully, the meal came to an end, the table was cleared and Denbigh accepted his guests' compliments. He leaned forward and placed his hands on the table with a mischievous look on his face.

"Now, for the benefit of Mr Paxton, I should explain that it is the tradition at Idlerave to sing for our supper. Each guest must perform a little party trick, whether it be a song, conjuring trick or simply a joke. I well remember Lloyd George entertaining my father with a rendition of Bread of Heaven, and it is said that Disraeli scandalised one of my great aunts with a rather risqué anecdote. There is no need to be embarrassed, for we are among friends and I assure you that MacIntyre is the most discreet of audiences. Now, who would care to start?"

Bond groaned inwardly. Damn M! Damn his ridiculous insistence on nurse-maiding these diplomatic popinjays instead of rounding up the whole crew and seeing who said what. How the hell was he going to survive this?

The colonel was first to speak. "I'll go first, if I may. Once more unto the breach, and all that. It will have to be a poem."

Bond drained his glass and braced himself for a rum-ti-tum rendition of "The Charge of the Light Brigade" or "Horatio at the Bridge".

Morgan cleared his throat. "This is something by Belloc, which I must stress is no reflection on the vintages served tonight –

_And yet I really must complain_

_About the Company's Champagne!_

_This most expensive kind of wine_

_In England is a matter_

_Of pride or habit when we dine_

_(Presumably the latter)._

_Beneath an equatorial sky_

_You must consume it or you die;_

_And stern indomitable men_

_Have told me, time and time again,_

'_The nuisance of the tropics is_

_The sheer necessity of fizz.'"_

Bond burst out laughing along with the rest of the dinner party. Morgan looked pleased and relieved; his wife beamed with pride.

"I had the good fortune to serve under Field Marshall Wavell during the war," said the Colonel. "He was always spouting lines in the middle of field briefings – one could hardly avoid picking up something or other."

The next entertainment came courtesy of Mrs Morgan, who warbled her way through "Most of Every Day" by Noël Coward.

"We met 'The Master' in Jamaica," whispered the Colonel to Bond. "The old girl was quite taken with him, though I've never seen the attraction." His wife battled to the end of the song, her determination not to let her husband down conquering her evident embarrassment. The Colonel applauded heartily, as did Bond. He admired her spirit.

"Now for something a little more practical," sidled Topolski before the applause had died down. He extinguished one of the flames on the candelabra in front of him, waited, and then drew an unlit match close to the smoking wick. As the match neared to within an inch, a sudden flash lit up the table and the candlewick jumped into life.

"A simple application of physics essayed by one of your countrymen, Faraday," murmured Topolski, folding his arms in an ecstasy of self-satisfaction.

"You have the table, Paxton," said Denbigh, his teeth bared in an approximation of a smile. The hint of a challenge hung in the air. Bond was tired – tired of the charade of bonhomie, tired of biting his tongue and most of all tired of the smug look on Topolski and Denbigh's faces. He tapped a cigarette on his gunmetal cigarette case and thumbed his Ronson but failed to produce a spark.

"Oh dear," he sighed. "Does anyone have a box of matches?"

MacIntyre stepped out of the darkness and, to Bond's delight, produced a box of Swan Vestas from his sporran. Bond thanked him and casually lit his cigarette. Exhaling a cloud of thick smoke, he leaned into the table; the rest of the party mimicked his movement, their curiosity piqued. Bond let more smoke stream from between his lips. Topolski was barely visible through the fog of aromatic smoke, and leaned even closer to see what Bond was up to. Without warning, Bond snapped his fingers and wrenched his wrist, flinging the still lit match toward the Russian. The match screamed past Topolski's right ear, sounding in the silence very like a ricocheting bullet. Topolski jerked backwards and half fell out of his chair. The rest of the guests also emitted various shrieks and then delighted laughter. Light flooded into the room as the double doors crashed open and Schaalk was framed in the light, his eyes searching the room.

"Nyet!" shouted Topolski, his wig slightly askew thanks to his near fall. The Russian waved away his assistant. Bond noted with interest that Schaalk looked crestfallen and only reluctantly turned away.

"Where did you learn that, Mr Paxton?" gasped Topolski.

"From a mountain guide I once knew. A little _après-ski_ trick."

Topolski dabbed his now damp forehead with his ruby handkerchief and realised his hairpiece had slipped. His face darkened, and Bond knew that he had made an enemy. Looking at the clearly furious Denbigh, Bond wondered if he hadn't doubled his pleasure. It was plain that only the master of ceremonies was allowed to derive a sadistic pleasure from the evening's entertainment.

"Well done, Mr Paxton. I must remember that one." Denbigh's gaze fell on the other end of the table. "Perhaps my wife would like to stir herself and add to the evening's entertainment."

"Darling, I'd rather not," said Milly, sounding animated for perhaps the first time that evening. "It's getting late and I am rather tired."

"Nonsense. Mr Paxton, choose a Shakespeare sonnet by number – any sonnet, any number."

Bond looked at Milly. She appeared nervous, and he guessed that she was contemplating what might happen to her later that evening behind closed doors. Bond ground his teeth. All right, he would keep the bastard happy. He searched his memory.

"Poetry's not my forte, you understand. But I do remember as a young man getting the brush-off from a girl I was rather keen on. She did it by letter and let me down gently." In fact, Bond remembered the sonnet only because the first line had formed the opening gambit of a desperate love letter sent to him by an overwrought actress he had met during a secondment in Vienna. The silly bitch had threatened to throw herself off the Reichsbrücke if he failed to confirm his undying love for her. Only a night of cold lovemaking and too much lying over breakfast had secured his release from the affair. He dredged his memory. "Let's see – 'Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing…'"

"You mean sonnet number 87, Mr Paxton," interrupted Milly.

"I suppose I must, Lady Denbigh. That's very clever of you. Can you recite it?"

Denbigh laughed. "We can do better than that. Darling?"

Milly placed one hand over her eyes. Deep creases of concentration appeared in her forehead. The table fell silent until it was broken by her voice, now curiously lifeless, intoning a string of words.

"Matter such no waking but, king a sleep In, flatter doth dream a as, thee had I have Thus…"

Mrs Thompson gasped. Bond was momentarily puzzled and then realised with astonishment that Milly was reciting the poem backwards. He had heard of such feats of memory before but had always assumed that they were the province of the circus act. When Milly finished the last line (or rather the first, Bond reminded himself) the gathering congratulated her with the most heart-felt round of applause so far.

Denbigh beamed at Bond. "Better than hearing it the right way round, eh, Mr Paxton? We are friends with a Welsh actor – who shall remain nameless – who likes to boast of his prowess for memorising lines. One evening we met at the Connaught and found him carousing with his drinking partner, a young American senator. This Welsh fellow had fleeced his friend, Kennedy's the name – quite a young charger by all accounts – by wagering that he could recite any sonnet from memory. When we arrived he decided to regale us with his party trick too, except that Milly matched him word for word, and when she offered to recite the American Declaration of Independence backwards he admitted defeat. I then took great pleasure in drinking him under the table." Denbigh drained his glass as if to demonstrate the veracity of his account.

Milly also drank deeply from her glass. "Yes darling, but when he recited the lines it was still poetry. I merely repeat the words."

The table waited for the usual forced flattery of a loyal husband, but none came. Denbigh seemed to be sharing a secret joke with Topolski and the two men smiled together in a way Bond found infuriating.

"Well, Mrs Denbigh," claimed Bond, "I enjoyed that immensely. And your voice could never be anything but charming."

Bond was rewarded with a tired smile from Milly. Mrs Morgan looked protectively towards her hostess and suggested that perhaps it was time for the ladies to retire for the evening. Denbigh accepted the suggestion with alacrity, and the men rose as two women left for the Drawing Room. Denbigh led the men to the Library where MacIntyre, who had already prepared a welcoming fire, was standing guard next to an enormous drinks trolley. The Adam bookshelves lining the walls displayed a handsome array of embossed book spines, their golden titles glinting in the firelight. Heavy Victorian paintings including a Landseer _Stag at Bay_ and some Dutch depictions of tiger and leopard hunts fought for space between the bookshelves. A Victorian hand had fallen particularly heavily on the ceiling and fireplace, where it seemed to Bond that not one blank surface had escaped being worked to within an inch of its life. A particularly noxious portrait of an elephant hunt loomed over the mantelpiece, its varnish darkened by generations of soot and cigar ash. Bond thought the room, despite its generous dimensions, cramped and oppressive.

Colonel Thompson ordered a Claridge. MacIntyre's fingers hesitated over the sparkling array of bottles and glasses on the sideboard.

"A quick reminder, Colonel?"

"Of course, MacIntyre. Shouldn't think anyone else is fool enough to drink it. Half and half gin and French vermouth, a good splash of Cointreau and top with apricot brandy, if you have it." Thompson leaned towards Bond and whispered, "Unforgivable, I know. Got the taste for it when stationed on St Kitts – and MacIntyre never stints on the measures." Bond grinned at the Colonel's self-indulgence. And why not? He would probably do the same at his age. Damn the liver and full speed ahead.

MacIntyre brought over the Colonel's drink and, following Bond's request, placed a decanter of whisky at Bond's elbow. The Glenlivet sparkled amber in the cut glass and Bond poured himself three fingers. For the first time in days he could feel a heavy warmth seeping into his bones. Bond took a sip and put the glass down. Sleep could be a blight in his line of work; alcohol at the wrong time was as deadly as hemlock. He sat up in his too-comfortable leather armchair and forced himself to stay alert. Denbigh sat the other side of the fire, his concentration fixed on gently swirling his balloon glass of brandy.

Topolski stood in front of the fireplace and smiled proprietarily. "I can never understand the British custom of segregating the men and women after dinner. Most Europeans would consider it to be quite barbaric."

For once, Bond found himself in agreement with the Russian. What little promise the evening had held had disappeared with Milly's withdrawal. He watched Topolski widen his stance, plant his feet firmly on a superb bearskin rug, and stick a thumb in his straining cummerbund. Here it comes, thought Bond: time for the soliloquy. He was not pleased to have his hunch confirmed; the Russian diplomat held court and began to expound on the benefits that Communism could bring to the West. Bond shifted in his seat. Lord, he was bored with ideologues. He could understand someone giving in to their impulses, however dark, but why did they always have to justify themselves, have to claim a place in history? The flow of words was temporarily stemmed as he paused to allow MacIntyre to refill his glass of champagne. Bond appraised the Russian. Warming his backside in front of the fire, stroking his goatee beard and resplendent in a too-tight cummerbund, Topolski cut a Chekovian figure. Bond wondered what Trotsky would have said about this prime example of Soviet egalitarianism. But then Trotsky, defender of the hammer and sickle, had lost an argument with an ice-pick. Topolski and people like him were crooks, plain and simple, yet none of them would ever admit it. He took consolation in the mellow Glenlivet and waited for the evening to peter out.

Denbigh stared into the fire and seemed content to let his guest continue with his display of bad manners. Colonel Thompson, emboldened by his second Claridge and the knowledge that he had survived the evening's ritual torture by entertainment, had had enough. The old soldier in him could not help himself.

"Forgive me, Topolski, but your waxing lyrical about Marx does seem a little, well, off, when you're here giving rather a good impression of what some people might call a Champagne Socialist."

"Nothing is too good for a communist, Colonel."

"No, of course not. But I'm old enough to remember the General Strike and even then I was rather tired of 'Bollinger Bolsheviks', as we called them."

Bravo! Bond longed to close ranks with the colonel and call Topolski a Parlour Pink, but he had already sailed too close to the wind for a supposedly nondescript civil servant. Topolski's brows knitted and he looked ready to answer with some vehemence when the large Empire clock on the mantelpiece chimed an aggressive eleven strokes.

Denbigh threw the stub of his cigar in the fire with an air of finality. "Well, gentlemen, I hate to break up this fascinating conversation but time's winged chariot, et cetera. MacIntyre will see you to the door, Colonel. Vladimir, Mr Paxton, I will see you at breakfast tomorrow."

The abrupt end to the conversation subdued what little liveliness had existed between the four men. They walked in silence to the hall, where Mrs Thompson was waiting for her husband. MacIntyre helped the colonel and his wife into their coats. Everyone said their goodbyes, and the Colonel shook Bond's hand warmly. Thompson favoured Bond with a thoughtful look, as though he recognised a fellow military man. For his part, Bond refused to acknowledge the Colonel's expression, annoyed that he had given room for doubt and already regretting his little stunt earlier that evening. After a polite round of "good nights" and "sleep wells" to Denbigh and Topolski, during which he had had to listen to Denbigh complain once more about the impositions of government work on his private life, Bond turned with relief to the stairs leading to his room.

Once upstairs, his thoughts centred on Denbigh's final utterance: "That fellow Forster had the right idea about the big idea, gentlemen - 'Two cheers for democracy'." If only Denbigh's constituents could hear him talk like that! Topolski and Denbigh were two cronies who had discovered how to work their respective countries' political establishments to their own benefit. If only they were up to something, he could do something about it. Bond shrugged off his jacket and tie with happy thoughts of arresting the two of them for – for what exactly? So he didn't like his host and his friend. What of it? If unpleasant guests were grounds for suspicion then half the dinner parties in the country were hotbeds of treason. The sooner he got out of Idlerave and back to normality, the better. Living the life of Riley was no way to help the Service. And fantasising about his host was even worse. Surely M would give him something better to do? Decima, whatever it was, was out there somewhere. There was nothing here to interest him.

Bond sat on the bed, hooked his holster around a bedpost, and unleashed a shuddering yawn. Nothing to interest him? That wasn't quite true, was it? The lady of the house would interest anyone with a pulse. On the moors today he had seen a vivacious, intelligent, utterly delectable woman. Conversation between them had come easily; it had felt natural, unstrained – there was none of that loathsome coquettishness so many women thought was attractive to men. He had never been the marrying type, but there had been moments…there had been moments on the Finnish ice when the thought had occurred that he might die without anyone to mourn him. Usually his work (he would have laughed if anyone had called it a 'career') distracted him from such thoughts, but in the last few months it had begun to dawn on Bond that either work had failed him or he was failing his work. Eventually he would have to clear his desk and make way for a younger man. There would be no more excitement, nothing to make the pulse run faster. With a sigh of disgust, Bond realised that the only woman in his life was May.

A woman like Milly didn't come along very often – especially one that had made such a disastrous choice of spouse. Bond wasn't one for breaking up happy marriages, but he would happily release Milly from Denbigh's clutches. And give Denbigh a quick lesson in assault and battery into the bargain. Maybe once his life was back on an even keel he would break the habit of a lifetime and do something rash, something soppily romantic – something the secretaries could gossip about on the Service powder-vine. Bond glanced at the tired man in the mirror and smirked. Careful, Rudolph bloody Valentino! He could almost hear the syrupy strings playing in the background. Now, get to bed and get back to London.

The sound of a distant door banging shut came through Bond's open window. Quick footsteps crunched noisily in the gravel below. Bond grabbed his nightglasses from under the pile of clothes in his suitcase, switched off the lamp and leaned out of the window, scanning the estate. The scene before him was grey-green. Visibility, courtesy of Koch and Wessler, was adequate except for the whitish flare of a thin crescent moon. On the left stood a bank of mature pine trees; nothing seemed amiss there. He swung the binoculars to the right, studied the striped front lawn and eventually finished his inspection at the thick stone walls of Idlerave House. The silence was absolute. Idlerave's castellated main hall, its empty sward, the theatrical moon, all combined to give the impression of a stage waiting for the actors to make their entrance. Bond saw a slim figure dash from the bushes at the far corner of the building. A burglar or something more sinister? Well, either way, it was curtain up!

The fugitive progressed noisily along the gravel path and then moved on to the grass alongside the path so as not to be heard, eventually disappearing along a path that ran through the dense clump of pines. Bond ran to the door, stopping only to scoop his gun from its dangling holster. He sprinted down the stone steps, thankful that he did not have to worry about creaking floorboards. The quickest way out was through the front door; one gentle turn of the large iron key, and the heavy door, its hinges oiled for generations, swung silently open. Bond squeezed past, gently shut the door behind him and crouched in the stone porch. The sliver of moon had dived under a sheet of cloud during the short time it had taken him to get outside. The darkness forced him to look through the goggles. There was no trace of the fugitive. Bond hurried across the path and followed his quarry's route behind the pine trees. The dense woodland's pitch-blackness compelled him to keep looking through the glasses every few paces to check his progress, and after a few yards Bond had resorted to holding the glasses to his eyes as he trotted along the path. A twig snapped. Bond froze. Two emerald eyes stared back at him through the black murk. It was only a roe deer. But the deer had been moving towards him – and therefore away from whoever had passed by here not a minute earlier. Bond advanced even more cautiously than before and eventually stopped at the edge of a clearing where a low-hipped stone building sat about fifty yards away. He crept behind a pile of logs and rested on one knee. There was no sign of movement. It was time to assess his surroundings.

Bond held the heavy nightglasses between forefingers and thumbs and adjusted the focus. He now recognised the unlit building as a bothy, the traditional stone building of the Highlands. The Koch & Wesslers afforded him a ghoulish view of the bothy, but Bond didn't care for the lack of peripheral vision. He changed his grasp to the approved method, resting his forefingers and thumbs against his face and pressing his forearms together, thus lessening the strain on his arms and steadying his gaze. He scoured the clearing for any movement or irregular shape that might betray the whereabouts of the mysterious fugitive. A close study of the building revealed nothing out of the ordinary; it seemed to be the usual foursquare, solid little building that could be found in half the glens in Scotland. His inspection climbed upwards to the modest chimney. For a second he imagined that the aurora borealis had come to visit him once more, but then he realised that the wraith-like presence pouring through the night sky was smoke. Smoke from the chimney of an empty house? Bond's internal alarm bell sounded. There was something odd here. The smoke drifted over the slate tiles to – what was that structure atop the roof? Thin poles led upwards to a nest of dishes. Radio antennae, perhaps? His eyes strained to see the structure more clearly, and it was at that moment his guts froze as he realised he was looking straight at a bank of darkened floodlights. A far-off clank sounded and the world flared to an eviscerating white, the searing light stabbing Bond's exposed retinas through the powerful night goggles.

Bond bellowed in pain and threw down the goggles. His vision swarmed with emerald Olympic rings, the blinding ghosts of the powerful floodlights. Footsteps sprinted towards him. Bond whipped out his gun, desperately trying to make sense of the rainbow of colours in front of him. A heavy blow knocked the Walther from his hand, and Bond lashed out blindly in response. The first blow to the solar plexus caught him completely unaware. He never saw the second.


	19. Chp 12 - Ain't That a Kick in the Head?

AIN'T THAT A KICK IN THE HEAD?

He was on the seabed, his body cold and stiff in the freezing water. The icepack floating overhead would surely entomb him forever. The struggle to galvanise lifeless limbs scorched his lungs. Get up, get up! The first cold mouthful invaded him as he rose – but just a few seconds more and he might survive yet. At last he broached the surface, and Bond awoke with a throat full of water, which he promptly coughed up. A man stood in front of him, nonchalantly swinging an empty pail back and forth. Schaalk wore the confident grin of the victor. Bond was sat on a bare wooden chair on a bare wooden floor. This must be the bothy. The pins and needles in his arms were a tribute to the tightly knotted rope that held his hands firmly behind the chair. Bond shivered in the cold, slowly realising that the tattered shirtsleeve dangling from his right wrist were the only remains of his shirt and jacket. The floorboards felt rough beneath his naked feet. Goose pimples erupted from his exposed skin. Schaalk placed the pail next to the fireplace that was too far away for Bond to feel any warmth. Schaalk swaggered in front of the flames, eventually resting one foot upon a pile of cut logs.

"Fresh spring water," smiled Schaalk. "You see, I give you nothing but the best." He wagged the long barrel of a gun at Bond as if to chide him for ever doubting his generosity. Bond shook his head in an attempt to clear the water from his eyes and squinted at the weapon. Schaalk wafted the gun under Bond's nose.

"Yes, this is a gun, Mr Paxton – if that is your real name, which I doubt – and yes, I am quite prepared to use it. You already know that its butt is a lot harder than that soft head of yours. By the way, those nightgoggles of yours are fascinating but, really, you should be ashamed of yourself. I'd be laughed out of town if any bushmen saw me using such a toy. Tsk, tsk." The barrel wagged once more. Bond recognised it as a Tokarev, favoured by Soviet officers for its stopping power. The gun was bad enough, but the silencer it sported was worse: only non-squeal killers used them. Schaalk was a pro.

Bond watched him pick up a telephone from its wall-mounted cradle and rattle the cradle.

"Yes, I've got him. You can come now."

No dial. Probably a direct line to the house, which meant that Denbigh was in on it, whatever the "it" was that Bond had blundered across. Topolski would be involved too – his presence and the Russian gun were too much of a coincidence – but the curt tone of Schaalk's message made it difficult to know who was the more senior Soviet operative. But whatever the arrangement was, it was important to them; a compromised or collaborating British minister would be an invaluable asset to Russia.

Bond sat very still, and concentrated on recovering his health and gauging his captor. Schaalk wore boots, cords, a thick vest, a heavy jumper and a black tweed jacket. He would be very difficult to hurt without a weapon. Was there anything in the room he could use? Bond's aching eyes fought to study the gloomy surroundings. The room was bare apart from the chair he sat on and the roaring coal fire that cast deep shadows across Schaalk's cruel features. The wallpaper seemed strange – were his eyes still playing tricks on him? And then he saw with disgust that the walls were covered in thousands of dead insects; beetles, moths, butterflies, beetles and spiders were all pinned to the roughly plastered walls in a grisly montage. Nameless wings and legs seemed to move in the fire's flickering light.

Schaalk noticed Bond's grimace. "Original décor, isn't it? Denbigh likes to collect things – hell, you've seen that mausoleum of a house – but he couldn't care less about studying them. The capture is all. Those floodlights attract every bug for miles around; even ones with night vision, Mr Paxton. All he has to do is switch them on and they come running, though not on a noisy gravel path."

Stupid, stupid! Any burglar worth his salt would know better than to run on those paths – and so would anyone more dangerous. He had been enticed and caught cold like a rank amateur. He must have looked idiotic to Schaalk, blundering along in the dark like Mr Magoo. Was this how Price felt when he stood there clutching the pineapple? Perhaps it wasn't just fatigue that had tripped him up – perhaps he was getting too slow, too old, for his very special line of work. Not to worry, thought Bond bitterly – by the look on Schaalk's face, he wouldn't have to worry too long about the effects of ageing. Schaalk circled Bond, his youth and vigour seeming to fill the room.

"We weren't too sure about you, Mr Paxton. If you were who you said you were, then no harm done. But if you were someone a little less trustworthy we knew you wouldn't be able to resist the lure of the chase."

Bond stayed silent and probed his feelings, checking out the little responses from his extremities that would let him know how he fared. His head ached like hell, of course, and his midriff was numb; the dark room was mercifully easy on his sore eyes, though the blotches remained. He gently flexed his forearms (shades of the interview with M before the start of the whole wretched business) and realised that the rope binding his right wrist was tantalisingly close to his remaining cufflink. There was potential there. Why weren't his feet similarly restrained? There were two possibilities: either Schaalk was pushed for time or, more unnervingly, he had all the time in the world.

Schaalk stood behind Bond. He grasped Bond's ears and dragged his thumbnails sharply downwards, ripping a strip of skin from each ear's edge. The pain was excruciating. Coarse lips brushed Bond's aching right ear.

"A taste of things to come."

The man was a true sadist: sensuous, patient and inventive. Bond had met the type before. He tried to suppress the bloody memories of a shuttered room and Le Chiffre's oh-so-soft voice.

Schaalk tugged Bond's Rolex from his wrist. "Nice watch."

"Thanks. You'll find the big hand is for minutes and the small – ."

A backhanded slap to the face cut him short. Schaalk slipped the watch over the knuckles of his right hand and crashed it into Bond's jaw. Schaalk waved the bloodied timepiece in front of Bond's swelling face.

"Yes, I was right," he growled. "It is a nice watch. Guaranteed accurate up to 200 punches, I believe."

He hit Bond again. Apart from his gasps of pain, Bond took it in silence – there was little point in protesting his innocence to the man who had found his gun and night goggles – and tried to jerk the cufflinks across the ropes with each blow.

"You're a strange one, Paxton," panted Schaalk. "Nothing wrong in having a nice watch; I like a Patek Phillippe for show, myself, but this is a specialist diving watch." Something green and silver dangled in front of Bond's bleary eyes: the Jaguar's key fob. "And that flash car of yours – hardly Civil Service issue, is it? But most of all, it was the way you moved at the shoot yesterday. All morning you couldn't hit a cow's backside with a banjo, but one sniff of a stray cartridge and you swivelled and dropped like a ballerina. You can't kid a kidder – there's something fishy about you and I want to know what it is."

Given the circumstances, the knock at the door was comically polite. The door opened, allowing a cold breeze to ruffle the bothy's macabre décor of stiff, dry wings like a fresh pack of cards. Topolski entered, clad in a heavy overcoat and fur hat, nodded patronisingly at Bond, and held the door open for his companion. Bond swore softly at the sight of the distaff side of the Denbigh household. Milly, also dressed for cold weather and carrying a holdall, stopped and stared at Bond. It was a moot point as to who was more shocked. Where was Denbigh?

"Come in, my dear," gestured Topolski, "or you will catch your death of cold." Schaalk too gestured for her to enter, and left the fireplace to stand behind Bond. Milly walked slowly to one side of the fireplace, keeping her eyes fixed to the floorboards in front of her. Topolski closed the door, chose a cut log from the pile next to the fire, dusted it with his leather gloves and sat on it with a contented sigh as though he had just found a front-row seat at Covent Garden.

Bond was very conscious that Schaalk stood directly behind him. It was impossible to predict if a blow was coming, though he tried not to flinch at each sound his captor made; the best way to do that was to keep talking, though in his heart Bond knew it was a futile effort.

"What's this all about? Milly, there's been some dreadful mistake. This man here thinks I'm a poacher or something." Milly said nothing. Ominous. Perhaps the Whitehall jobsworth act might work. "Look here, Topolski, may I remind you that I'm a member of the Civil Service and the government will have some very stern words to say." His words were mangled into a scream by a creasing pain along his arms and shoulders as Schaalk jerked his elbows downwards.

The rough lips stung his ears once more. "Any more of that and I'll break both arms at once." Through the pain Bond prayed that Schaalk didn't look too closely at his cufflink. The iron grip on his arms relaxed, but the respite was short-lived, as Schaalk grabbed Bond's right wrist and twisted it mercilessly.

"What's this?"

So that was it, thought Bond. It was all over.

Schaalk tapped the knuckles of Bond's right hand. "Now this interests me. Something not quite right here. Milly? Central Index, Zapiska, distinguishing mark: surgery on hand."

Bond's relief that Schaalk had ignored the cufflink quickly faded into apprehension at the sight of the pallid woman who was barely visible in the shadows cast by the fire. Milly's bottom lip drooped and her eyeballs rolled upwards, leaving two white orbs staring blindly under fluttering lashes. Subconsciously, Bond noted that his goose pimples had erupted all over again at the ghoulish scene.

"Milly! What on earth – "

Bond's right temple rang to a crashing blow from Schaalk. His ears hummed and buzzed and the room seemed to darken. The shimmering figure in front of him mouthed words he could not understand. Schaalk tucked his gun back into his coat pocket and nodded at Milly.

"Sorry for the interruption. Carry on."

The full, red lips barely moved as the words _"Central Index, Zapiska," _emerged in a lifeless drone._ "Bond, James. Angliski Spion. Status: active. Lippe, Count. Member of Red Lightning Tong. Status: active. No, Dr Julius. Associate. Status: deceased." _

Schaalk held up a hand. "What was that first name? Bond? Tell me more."

Bond found himself staring at the floorboards at his feet. They seemed to sway and distort, and he guessed that the last blow had concussed him. He strained to hear Milly's distorted voice resume its recitation.

"_Appendix 'A'. During liquidation of Le Chiffre - see Central Index, July 1951 - identified as foreign spy and marked with the letter shah."_

Schaalk looked closely at Bond's hand and grunted. He stepped in front of Bond and studied the bloodied features intently.

"Physical description."

Milly's eyes rolled obscenely once more. Her voice, faint and distorted, kept disappearing, as though Bond was listening to a distant radio station and couldn't quite get the correct frequency.

"_James Bond, Angliski Spion. First name: James. Height: 183 centimetres…left shoulder; signs of plastic surgery on back of right hand - see Appendix 'A' - all-round…previously armed with a .25 Beretta automatic carried in a holster under his left arm; now thought to carry a Walther PPK 7.65mm, usually worn under left arm, but can be worn inside trouser band on same side. Magazine holds six rounds. Occasionally uses .38 Smith & Wesson revolver, capacity five rounds…has a high tolerance of pain - see Appendix 'B' – '007' in the British…to kill on active service. Suspected of unprovoked assassination of Comrade Colonel Klebb of Otdyel II. Any contact with said operative to be reported in full to headquarters - see SMERSH and KGB Standing Orders 1953 onwards."_

Bond returned to full consciousness in time to see the two quivering poached eggs descend out of view to be replaced by the mismatched eyes he had once thought wonderful.

Schaalk beamed. "Thank you. This enemy of the state undoubtedly deserves to die." His grin faded. He grabbed Bond's chin, his brown eyes boring into Bond's. "You're a man after my own heart, Mr Bond - but I was after yours first." Schaalk withdrew his grasp, making sure to rake his fingernails under Bond's chin.

Topolski smiled sympathetically. "We have a saying on the Steppes, Mr Bond: 'A horse has four legs, yet still it stumbles.'" He chuckled at Bond's puzzled expression. "What do you know of our little arrangement?"

Bond licked his lips, now sticky with blood. Time for a long shot. "We know of Decima, if that's what you mean."

"Bravo, Mr Bond. And what exactly do you know of Decima?"

"Enough to put an end to it."

"I see. And our work has not hampered Great Britain in the slightest and you're up here simply to keep us company. Really, you can do better than that. We know for a fact that your precious secret service is licking its wounds, suspecting everyone and everything. You probably have a tail in every restaurant in Soho, examining the menu and wondering whether to impound today's Stroganoff. Poor Mr. Bond – I have the feeling it was just your bad luck to have blundered into us." He glanced at his watch. "I think we have time enough to put Mr. Bond out of his misery – in a manner of speaking. My dear?"

Topolski looked expectantly at Milly, who leaned forward as though to approach Bond and then, hesitating, stayed where she was at the edge of the firelight. Her face was drawn, and to Bond it looked as though the strain of seeing his battered face at close quarters was greater than the strain of describing him in detail.

"Do you remember, Charles – Mr Bond – when I told you how I came by my nickname?"

"Call me James, why don't you."

"James, then. My father gave me the name Milly. It was half-past ten on a breezy Tuesday morning. Papa was reading _Chez les Flamands_, Simenon's latest. He wore a dark blue cotton shirt, the fourth button of which needed darning, brown corduroys and brown shoes. The toe of his right shoe bore a scuffmark from when he had tripped over our darling terrier the week before. Mama was upstairs listening to a gramophone recording of _I Got Rhythm_ that always skipped halfway through the third verse. As Papa decided what name he should give me, a chaffinch and a magpie disputed in song who was master of the garden. Through the study window I saw a number 9 bus rattle past, advertising the beneficent charms of Ovaltine. Shall I go on, James?"

"I already knew you had an extraordinary memory. What's your point?"

"I don't have an extraordinary memory, James. I have an eidetic memory. Allow me to recite the dictionary definition: 'Exceptionally vivid and detailed recall of visual and auditory stimuli previously perceived.' From an early age I could recall at leisure everything, absolutely everything, which I saw or heard. My mother, always one for the _mot juste_, dubbed me a Sibyl in reverse – able to foresee the past with unswerving accuracy. When I began to serve the cause, I thought of the Sibyls of antiquity. There were traditionally nine. I would become the tenth, hence – "

"Hence Decima. _You're_ Decima!" Shock and disappointment mingled in Bond's outburst.

Topolski slapped his thigh in amusement. "But Mr Bond, you know all about Decima, surely?" He giggled again, his body shaking with laughter. He waved Milly on.

Bond stared resentfully at the woman before him. She could not meet his gaze. Good. He wasn't going to make this easy for her. With a sigh, Milly composed herself and began to speak again, this time her voice less certain than before.

"A Government Minister is an important man, Mr Bond, and my husband had access to many sensitive documents: Cabinet minutes, memos, white papers, proposals, et cetera. We were both on the lookout for state secrets. My husband's motives sprang chiefly from his gambling debts, which threatened to claim his precious estate; my purpose derives from a higher of us were looking for something lucrative, though his idea of reward was very different from mine. Francis would try to snoop in his official capacity as a government official, and if that failed I would often catch people off-guard with the oldest and simplest way of communicating – gossip. You'll be amazed what drunken old men will tell an attractive younger woman in a bid to impress them." Her lips quivered in an approximation of a smile. Bond gave her the deadman's eye – there would be no encouragement from him. No wonder the Service hadn't found any leads. There was nothing to find: no trail of evidence, no paperwork, and no recording device. She was the perfect mole.

Milly continued, the words tumbling out one after the other. "One morning I waited with Francis in his offices at the Foreign Office. As a rule, he let nothing through the department without it first crossing his desk – hence his reputation for hard work. Most ministers are happy to let their secretaries take care of the bulk of work, but Francis, for obvious reasons, wanted to see everything. Anyway, he had seen a memo from No.11 complaining about the expense of re-housing some Home Office archives at Scotland Yard. Francis took an interest in the matter and asked to see the paperwork – purely as a way of seeing if the F.O. could reduce expenditure should they have to do something similar, you understand. Whitehall is more like a collection of competing fiefdoms than government departments; nothing pleases that jamboree of time-servers more than thumbing their nose at a rival ministry. Anyway, Francis always kept an eye out for anything involving Scotland Yard – hushed-up scandals are useful for blackmail, though I have always suspected him of sheer prurience.

The file duly arrived, accompanied by a policeman at all times because of the sensitive nature of its contents. When Francis saw the file's contents, he realised that they were summaries of the Special Operations Executive's wartime operations in Europe. He told me later that such documents normally wouldn't see the light of day, but the Blitz wreaked terrible damage on Scotland Yard's archives – he said he often saw paperwork bearing scorch marks and so on. The summaries held no value on the black market, except perhaps to an ambitious military historian, bar one document. It seems that at the end of the war an over-zealous clerk compiled a list of SOE's safe houses."

Safe houses, thought Bond. Places where a covert agent might lie low for a few days, or set up surveillance, or receive transmissions or recuperate from serious wounds. Bond had done all of that and more both during and after the war. The "house" could be a squalid bed-sit in Leipzig or a comfortable manor house in Rimini. That didn't matter; what did matter was the only thing that mattered to a spy: anonymity. A safe house was a refuge from the storm. It was sanctuary.

"The details go back to 1939," Milly paused to allow the significance of her remark to sink in, "so therefore the list contains details of safe houses – not names but addresses – across Europe and, most importantly, behind the Iron Curtain."

Bond's lips grew white with tension. God almighty, this was disastrous. If only half of the addresses in the list were still in use the leaked information would cripple the Service. Soviet agents would monitor every safe house west of the Rhine day and night, photographing and recording anyone who used them. And in the Eastern Bloc? SMERSH and the KGB would descend on previously clandestine locations like a plague of locusts. Even if the Service's field agents were warned (and no warning would come), the Russians would sweep vital equipment and documents into their net; if the agents were caught unawares a bloodbath would ensue. Britain would be blind in Europe.

"Obviously Francis couldn't steal the file, and it was too long to copy without being noticed. He requested another day's perusal so he could give due consideration to the tricky matter of cross-departmental budgeting. Permission was given – in Whitehall it's almost bad manners not to request more time for bureaucratic decisions; and so the next day the dutiful minister was joined by his wife on an important day in the social calendar. Francis wanted me by his side on the 11th of November during the two minutes' silence. Two minutes: just enough time for him to fake a coughing fit."

"Remembrance Day – rather appropriate, don't you think?" chortled Topolski. Even Schaalk smirked.

Bond could see it all now: the Minister's choking attack and strangled plea for water; the frightened wife rushing to help her stricken husband; her heartfelt pleas forcing the panicking policeman to leave his post in search of water; the flustered young policeman, in an ecstasy of English embarrassment, hesitating to run and disturb the Remembrance Day silence; and then his return, at a fast walk, with the life-giving glass of water to the embarrassed and grateful politician, his reward for such diligence the look of thanks and (could it be?) admiration from the beautiful Lady Denbigh. And while the sweating policeman was doing his duty, the beautiful Lady Denbigh would be flicking through the sooty file and memorising its precious contents. Enough gold could be sifted from the silt to lay waste to Britain's intelligence network.

Milly continued, her explanation speeding up as though she found it distasteful to recount. "Every few months I visit spas and health centres in Switzerland. A very understanding psychologist from Berne helps me to regress under hypnosis and decant the information before the strain becomes too great. Most of the useable information comes from scraps of overheard conversation and muttered rumours. Often I am barely aware of what I am memorising – someone laughing at the next table in a noisy restaurant, for example. I can only recall these snippets in tranquillity. Memorising KGB files is fairly straightforward in comparison."

"We have a submarine waiting off the coast to carry our prize home," butted in Topolski. "Even though it is most unlikely that your security people would stop Lady Denbigh on another of her regular trips abroad, it has been decided that it is unwise to run a risk with such valuable information. I shall accompany Milly on her journey to Murmansk, where we will both be honoured for our dedication to the cause, and Lady Denbigh – or Comrade Bonham as I must now call her – will begin her new life as a citizen of the Soviet Union."

Milly stroked her left temple gingerly as though she was afraid to press too hard. "In this case I remembered so much so quickly, and the information is so important, that my controller wishes to see me in person. It has not been easy to live a double life, James – as you should know – and with this last effort my work here will be finished. I have no wish to continue living in the decadent West. Besides," her smooth rendition faltered, "I could not live a minute longer with – that man."

Bond stared at the woman in front of him, a committed communist and the wife of an aristocrat. "You have no idea what you've done," he snarled.

"But I do. It is a fight between ideologies. Idlerave itself is a microcosm of all that is wrong with the world. Can't you see that, James? How can it be right that one man should have so much while others have nothing? The information I have will help the Soviet Union free other people from the yoke of Western oppression." The political clichés fell stillborn from her cold lips.

Bond ran his tongue around his mouth, trying to gauge the damage. "It's strange, but the last time I was in Berlin people were dying to get out of your wonderful Union. I made up my mind a long time ago about you people."

"Believe me, James, if there were any other way."

"There are plenty of 'other ways' and you damn well know it. Your information will betray hundreds of people who will be tortured by men who will make your husband look like a rank amateur when it comes to inflicting pain." Bond had gone too far. Milly's eyes seemed to freeze over and he saw a different woman to the one he thought he knew.

"What would you know of pain?"

A blood-soaked Bond rolled his eyes in disbelief. The woman was out of her not-so-tiny mind.

"What would you know of it?" she shouted. "To be hurt every day by your husband, by the one person whom a wife should not fear, to suffer each insult, each slap and punch until death seemed a welcome option? I was just another trophy to be pinned to the wall. Francis was the embodiment of all that is wrong with the world, and I am proud to say I endured his company in order to rid the world of him and men like him." Milly stood rigid, her gloved hands clenched into fists. "I have fought the good fight and my reward will be the sight of men and women living in equality and harmony."

Bond sighed. It was no use. Milly's ideology, poisoned by the violent treatment at the hands of her husband, had twisted into fanaticism.

"When you've finished being righteous, could you settle a few things for me?"

Milly looked at Schaalk, who nodded in return. "He's all tied up with no place to go. But make it quick."

"Tell me," croaked Bond, his voice dry from thirst and tension, "have you ever been to Finland?" She shook her head. "Met any Finns recently?"

Milly's eyelashes fluttered as she searched her memory, but this time her eyes stayed fixed on Bond. "Yes, last month at a British Council concert – a Sibelius song cycle at the Wigmore Hall."

"A fine composer, but I prefer his symphonies," interjected Topolski. "The Council is glad to have Milly's assistance at meetings and functions, you understand."

"Hurry up," tutted Schaalk.

The long eyelashes flickered again. "But I don't see – ah, yes of course! At the intermission I overheard someone complain that her husband, a sergeant, was forced to go on manoeuvres because the – what was it? – the Jaeger Battalion was pulling out all the stops for some elite British troops. She complained particularly about one miserable Englishman who was monopolising the senior officer's time."

Bond thought of Ari's officious sergeant whose gossiping wife had signed his death warrant. M was right. There was no pattern to Decima's influence – Milly's haphazard method of gathering information meant that her superiors would be acting mostly on supposition and guesswork. He wouldn't mind wagering that the Spetsnaz troops had crossed the Finnish border every day during his stay in the hope that they would net someone important.

"And Portugal?"

"I spent a pleasant enough evening at a cocktail party at the US Embassy in Lisbon last month – the ambassador knew Francis of old, so it was easy enough to get an invitation. Some wretched industrialist there tipped me off that Portugal was about to increase its tungsten production. He failed to see why such a romantic gesture should not be reciprocated. At least your question tells me that I am helping to subvert the status quo. Most of the information I retain is quite useless – the markings of the black adder, for instance."

"You should know all about a snake in the grass."

Schaalk retrieved Bond's gun from his coat pocket. "Mind your manners, Bond. I can't decide which gun to shoot you with, but any more lip from you and it might be both."

Bond stared at his Walther with something like longing. He had always hated to let anyone else touch his firearm; it seemed like a part of him, an extra limb, and to see it in Schaalk's hands felt like a violation. Schaalk tapped his lips with its barrel, seemingly deep in thought. He smiled at Bond and then proffered the gun to Milly.

"Here, take it."

Milly shook her head.

"I'm not asking you to shoot him," he said, grabbing her right hand and placing the gun in it, "just take it and put it away." Milly took the Walther with both hands, her face a mask of revulsion, and slipped it into her handbag.

"That's more like it. Now, when you're debriefed I want you to make sure it gets to the right person. I want it displayed at the Lubyanka's Black Museum where it will be an inspiration to all SMERSH operatives. Got it?"

Topolski laughed and clapped his approval. "Excellent idea, Schaalk! It shall have pride of place – a little shrine to Mr 007 in the heart of Moscow."

Bond reflected on luck once more. It had given with one hand in a dark cellar in Lisbon and now it was taking away with the other in a freezing shack in the wilds of Scotland. _Banco_. He spat blood at Topolski's feet.

"Send the royalties to my tailor."

Topolski rose surprisingly quickly for a fat man and slapped Bond hard. Bond didn't know which was worse – the stinging pain of the blow or the revolting feel of the Russian's flabby hand. Schaalk laughed coldly.

"How's that for déjà vu?" rasped Bond to Milly. "By the way, care to tell me the whereabouts of your wonderful husband who is so different from your friends here?" His remark stung Milly. Good. Keep working at her. She was the weakest link, and the most vital.

Milly held a hand to her head. "Before we retired for the night I suggested one last glass of brandy as a toast to our coup. My husband, sot that he was, was only too keen to drink to the occasion. A dash of cyanide simply rounded off the celebration."

Christ, thought Bond, he had stumbled into a house of horrors. Yet it must have been all too easy for her: a strongly aromatic drink like brandy to cover the taste; for Denbigh too late the smell of almonds; and then the choking fit, for real this time. Next would come the pleading, desperate look at his wife and finally the slide towards the carpet, or perhaps the oblivious embrace of one of Idlerave's many animal skins.

"Tell me, James," implored Milly, her arms spread wide, "what use would my husband be in Russia? Like all aristocrats, he would be a drain on the common weald. It is in their nature. Those who value money above morality have no place in the Struggle."

"My thoughts exactly," growled Schaalk. He swung the silenced barrel of the Tokarev to point at Topolski, and Bond watched the Russian's smug smile invert.

"You have been siphoning off expenses, comrade. Getting used to the high life, were we?" The whispered death sentence, "SMERSH has deemed you expendable," ended in a lead full stop.

Topolski fell to his knees, his smooth face now shockingly crinkled. Bond knew that Schaalk had shot him in the belly out of pure sadism. This time the ruby ribbon spilling from Topolski's jacket was not silk. His hairpiece slid to one side of his head like an errant beret, and even in his death throes there came the absurd reflex to straighten it. Bond wondered if Denbigh's last expression had mirrored Topolski's. Would there have been the same mixture of pain, anger, and dumb acceptance on his face too? Schaalk put a bullet through the shiny pate. The body flopped on the floor, a fat fish out of water, and jerked to a stop at Milly's feet. Milly backed away screaming.

"See?" cried Bond. "Is this what you want?"

"Did you have to do that?" hissed Milly, her face white.

"Of course I bloody had to. Now shut up and let me work." Schaalk turned to Bond, the smoking gunbarrel hungry for more. "And you can choose between a painful death or something really nasty, so watch your mouth."

"What's in it for you, Schaalk?" sneered Bond. "Don't tell me your politics dictated your course of action."

"Politics?" Schaalk smiled. "Don't talk to me about politics, Bond. You British took what you wanted from Africa, and now you're leaving the white man to fend for himself. The kaffirs are going to swamp the continent and cock everything up, like they always do. But who cares? Let the politicians carve it up again. You of all people should know why I do this, Bond. The pay's good, very good in fact; I get lots of kit to play with," the barrel wagged again, "there's travel, excitement, and every now and then I get to – how can I put it? – _let rip_." He turned back to Milly, an evil grin on his face. "Now get going while I mete out a little political justice."

Milly edged quietly to the door, her eyes never leaving Bond's. She hesitated. "Go!" yelled Schaalk, "or do you want to stay and watch?"

She turned, nearly stepping on Topolski's body, and pulled open the door. Her beautiful features seemed to crumble in the glare of the floodlights outside, and she darted out of the door, sobbing audibly.

"Thank God for that," laughed Schaalk, tightening his grip on Bond's Rolex once more. "I hope she's packed her knickers. But don't worry about me Bond – I travel light. And after I've finished questioning you, I'll be over the hills and far away. You forget, Bond, I'm a bushman – that's my living room out there." He walked around Bond like a basking shark circling its prey. "You know, I met Colonel Klebb once, or Major Klebb as she was then, when she was lecturing on political coercion at the University of Baku. She had a sparkling personality, though I think she regretted her physical limitations prevented her from using the honeytrap technique personally. Never was there such a fearsome instrument of torture as her bikini. She didn't have to search for an empty patch of sand, I can tell you. She was no great loss to the fashion world, but as a professional courtesy I must ask after her whereabouts."

There came the faint sound of a Land Rover driving away. Bond ground his teeth. He was dead anyway. Give the bastard nothing. He looked Schaalk in the eye. "Still enjoying a hot climate, I expect."

Another wave of pain crashed through his jaw. Bond felt a couple of teeth loosen.

"Clever boy," said Schaalk with glee. "What was that Appendix 'B' stuff Milly was parroting? 'A high tolerance of pain,' I think it was. Let's see, shall we?"

Schaalk grabbed Bond's hair with one hand and with the other began to work him over methodically. With each crashing blow, Bond jerked exaggeratedly and tried to cut his bonds with the razor sharp inner edge of his cufflink, but after only a few seconds the intense pain became too much, and he could feel panic and despair rise within him. A vicious uppercut almost tipped Bond's chair over, and Schaalk was forced to grab Bond by the shoulders and roughly jerk him upright. Through the pain, Bond felt the rope securing his right wrist give slightly. That last wrench had grazed the rope against his cufflink.

"Let's do this properly, shall we?" said Schaalk in a singsong voice. He pulled out a coil of wire from his jacket pocket and knelt to tie Bond's feet, at the same time placing his gun between Bond's legs. Bond felt the cold steel of the Tokarev's silencer against his groin.

The door opened and a figure from Scotland's past appeared at the door: a Highlander on the lookout for poachers.

"I saw the lights." MacIntyre's bewildered voice was shockingly clear in the sudden silence.

The ghillie took in Topolski's ruined body on the floor and the blood-spattered figure tied to the chair. With a bleak smile, MacIntyre drew his sgian dubh. "I can gralloch a hind in a minute flat, man," he growled. "Move away."

Bond shouted a warning, but a low thud told him that it was too late. MacIntyre crumpled to the ground and only the stench of cordite told of Schaalk's silencer. Schaalk turned in silence and knelt to tie Bond's legs. As he brought the smoking Tokarev to bear, Bond lashed out with his foot and kicked the gun from Schaalk's grasp. A static second followed in which both men watched the gun dance and skip across the floor and eventually come to rest on the glowing coals of the fireplace like a desirable trinket in a jeweller's display cabinet. With a burst of energy powered by anger and revulsion, Bond staggered to a crouch and twisted his torso violently. His right arm ripped free from its mooring and as the alarmed Schaalk sprang at him Bond swung his left arm, and the chair with it, at his gaoler with all his might. Schaalk staggered under the blow, an arm raised to fend off the chair as it shattered into splinters. Bond flung himself at his enemy, but his aching muscles, bruised and too long confined, were slow to react. The smaller man instantly crouched and threw Bond in an expertly controlled manoeuvre. Bond's hamstrings screamed as he sprang onto his haunches – Stay on your feet, damn you! – and threw a rabbit punch in an attempt to catch Schaalk off-guard.

As his straight right hit thin air Bond knew immediately that he was in trouble. The first rule of close combat was to stay balanced, and Bond had already broken it, his momentum carrying him through until he could do nothing to stop a blow to the back of his neck – only a savage jerk of his head prevented a killing blow. He lurched under the force of the impact, and only blind luck helped him to survive Schaalk's stamping boots, each kick an attempt to smash a kneecap. Bond's toes tried to grip the cold floor. Lameness was fatal in the wild, and he knew that if Schaalk could maim him he would finish him off slowly like a tiger stalking a wounded wildebeest. Though Bond had the weight advantage, Schaalk was fiendishly quick and wiry. Neither man wanted to get in close unless they had a decisive advantage.

Schaalk retreated to the doorway, swinging his heels behind him, searching for MacIntyre's body. Only when he felt the corpse at his feet did he risk a glance downwards towards his victim's knife. With a lazily elastic reach that both impressed and worried Bond, Schaalk's right hand plucked the sgian dubh off the floor and gripped it in the classic combat position – fist out, blade down.

Now it was just Bond who wanted to keep his distance. He had been trained in real combat, the type of fighting where an opponent does not make a single thrust with a knife and then pose with an outstretched arm, waiting to be disarmed. A safe distance for an unarmed man against a knife-wielding assailant was roughly twenty feet – any closer and one was as good as dead. Trying to disarm a truly scientific knife fighter would be like trying to stop a propeller with his bare hands.

There was one chance, however: Schaalk's technique was competent but orthodox. Unless SMERSH had updated its combat manual, _Defence_, Bond might still have the upper hand.

Schaalk sprinted at Bond, who dashed along the wall, desperately trying to keep clear until he had evaluated his man's fighting style. Another lunge from Schaalk forced Bond to slide along the wall. He felt hundreds of insect husks snap and crumble over his naked shoulders and back; nameless wings and legs tumbled and snagged on his blood-drenched chest. MacIntyre's body lay in the doorway, allowing the chilly air to stream in and fan the fire's embers. Bond knew Schaalk wouldn't let him get to the door; despite the fire's heat he could feel already feel the freezing air on his feet and naked chest. Flames gleamed in the sgian dubh's blade. Without a weapon Bond was forced to hug the walls while Schaalk prowled the centre of the room, trying to close the diagonal and cut off his escape. He felt something warm and soft beneath his left foot, and realised that he had trodden on Topolski's face, the crunch of nose cartilage providing a grim accompaniment to the slap of his bare feet on the bothy's floor.

Schaalk paused in his pursuit and held his right hand towards Bond. He slowly turned the knife so its blade pointed forward, the blade flat and the cutting edge outward. The knife shone in the orange glow of the fire as it swung from side to side in a figure of eight: a cobra with a single steel fang. SMERSH had kept abreast of things. A knowing smile appeared above Schaalk's chin. Bond smiled back, knowing that psychology was vital in such a contest. To back down would be to boost his opponent's confidence. It was no use appearing vulnerable; Schaalk knew that Bond was a killer as well. Once the attack came it would be unrelenting.

Schaalk came at him in a rush, the knife seeming to sweep everywhere at once. Bond ran to meet him in an attempt to intercept the attack. The blade flailed towards Bond's face and torso as he weaved desperately, trying to get inside Schaalk's reach before any serious damage could be done. White heat ran up Bond's left arm as Schaalk scythed again and again. Bond exploded a knee into Schaalk's midriff and was rewarded with a satisfying grunt of pain. Bond tried again and was met with a lash above the knee. _Don't let up – attack or die. _Schaalk had not yet committed himself – he was waiting for the right opportunity, and Bond knew it but could do nothing about it. He had to close on his man.

Ignoring the pain as heavy boots stamped on his toes, Bond clamped his arms around Schaalk's ribs and drove a knee across and behind Schaalk's left calf. He leant all his weight on it, forcing Schaalk nearer the floor. Bond was slowly inching his fingers over Schaalk's shoulder to lock his arm around the straining neck. For a second their eyes met, and then Schaalk drove an elbow into Bond's chin and slid his knife, almost gently, between Bond's ribs, twisting the blade. Bond gasped as Schaalk began to cut him open, pushing the point upwards towards the heart; he hooked one arm _in extremis_ between Schaalk's legs and with the other grabbed the back of the blond head. He could hear someone screaming in the distance. With his last remaining strength Bond loped to the fireplace and rammed Schaalk's face into the hot coals. Schaalk rippled like a live eel; his hands scrabbled blindly for his gun, plunging again and again into the red-hot coals. Bond wedged his knee onto the back of the wiry neck and pushed harder. The stench of roasting flesh gagged in Bond's throat. He pressed harder still to dampen the hissing sound. Gradually the body stopped moving beneath him until, with a last tremor, it lay still and burned on the embers. Slowly, delicately, he prised Schaalk's blood-soaked death-grip from the knife's ivory handle. Curiously, he felt no pain when he pulled out the blade. He swallowed lungfuls of icy air and realised the distant screaming had been his. Fresh pain in his ribs jerked him away from seductive sleep. He could hear a curious popping, bubbling sound. Schaalk's face was melting into the hot coals, his blond hair now ablaze with an infernal halo. The reek of scorched flesh assaulted Bond's throat and nostrils and he retched again.

He knelt on all fours, his body slick with blood and sweat, and heard blood drops splash beneath him. The effort to stand made inhuman demands on Bond's ravaged frame; it seemed to him that it was a savage beast who used the remains of his ripped shirt to make a makeshift bandage. Halfway to the door he remembered his car keys and spent precious seconds searching Schaalk's pockets. Before stepping over the spread-eagled corpse in the doorway, Bond rearranged MacIntyre's clothing in a pathetic attempt to give some dignity to the bekilted man's death. He staggered out into the stormy night, the sgian dubh still in his hand and a deathly curse on his lips.


	20. Chapter 13 - A Vroom with a View

A VROOM WITH A VIEW

The twin cams of the Jaguar complained vociferously as Bond rammed the car into top. Come on, come on! He hammered the steering wheel and felt the chassis buck beneath him. The car had power to spare, but that power could quite easily kill a woozy driver threading through pine trees on a filthy night. Pounding rain threatened to overwhelm the twin windscreen wipers. Too late for regrets now - he would just have to make the best of a bad job. The car ploughed along the bridlepath, its headlights picking out the fresh tyre tracks before it. A startled fox flashed across the rutted track. Muddy tyre tracks had led Bond from Idlerave House to a five-bar gate that swung crazily in the wind. The Jaguar had brushed it aside and stormed onto a meandering bridlepath. By his reckoning, Elsa would be at least three miles in front of him, and the rendezvous with the sub was a further two. It was going to be tight. The car ploughed over a hump in the path, dislodging MacIntyre's bloodstained knife from its perch on the dashboard. Bond caught it in his lap and jammed it under his belt.

What a fool he'd been. What a blind, vain fool! At the first sign of a damsel in distress he'd relished the role of saviour. How easily he'd been seduced by that trembling lip and those tear-splashed cheeks! Had he learned nothing? Tiredness was no excuse. No, he'd lowered his guard and she'd stabbed him without compunction. Came from the Mata Hari Charm School, that one. The female of the species was indeed deadlier than the male. And now this particular female was going to ensnare God knew how many agents in her web.

A long straight led to the horizon, giving Bond time to prise a half-empty pack of Tyomies from the glovebox. Was it only two days ago that he was the hare? And now he was the hound, with precious little chance of running down the scent. As he lit a cigarette (to blazes with the fiddly wooden holder), Bond's reflection flared in the windscreen. He looked awful, tense as hell, his face swollen and raw. Sucking down the blessed smoke, he allowed the nicotine to flood through his senses. Get a grip. Calm down. Form a plan of action – it was use simply roaring up to a Soviet hunter-killer sub and shouting at it.

He must alert the authorities. Bond flipped open the leather casing behind the gearbox and felt for a little bakelite button. Like other Service cars, the XK140 carried a powerful homing device used to track cars that were out of sight. He tapped the button twice, and ran his fingers over the tiny brass slab that was the Homer itself, pressing its edge. Bond winced as the car reverberated to a high-pitched pinging. The Homer used a powerful VHF transmitter to signal back to the car's receiver and its signal was on the brink of feedback. He prayed that the unusual signal, boosted by its extreme proximity and howling feedback, would somehow be picked up by monitoring stations in the area. Balnakeil was on the coast somewhere – wasn't there some kind of base there? Cape Wrath? The appearance of an unusual signal moving at high speed at such an unearthly hour might alert someone who knew his job. The Homer had a unique frequency reserved for military operations. Surely they could work out it was someone from the Service? Bond chucked his spent cigarette out of the window and slapped the dashboard. Forget it. He was on his own. Attacking the sub was out of the question. He had to get the girl.

A kink in the bridlepath bit the car and for a second a looming tree trunk filled the windscreen. Bond heaved the steering wheel over and felt the pine slap the XK140 like a parent admonishing an overwrought child. The Jaguar's rear window disappeared along with half its offside rear wing and he felt cold air flood through the gaping hole. Miraculously, nothing serious seemed to be broken and Bond mercilessly kept his foot to the floor. Another sharp bend threw the car to one side and Bond nearly lost control when he slid halfway out of his seat. His trousers felt wet beneath him and Bond didn't have to look down to know that he was sitting in a pool of blood. The hellish journey would end soon one way or another. The constant danger of sliding side-on into pine trees meant he couldn't relax. Sweat and blood and muck fought for control of his grip on the steering wheel. The wall of trees thinned out ahead – there was salt in the air. The coast couldn't be far now. A first glint of steel lit the horizon and Bond switched off his headlights so Elsa wouldn't see the powerful twin beams following behind her. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the murky maelstrom in front of him that doubled for early morning. The road started to drop towards a thrashing sea. Was that a red light ahead? Bond saw a beach about twenty feet below, lined with a wooden picket fence. Ahead, the track shied right and ran parallel to the beach for about half a mile before looping down to the sand. There wasn't time. Bond ignored the tight bend and aimed straight for the fence. White planks bounced off the car's bonnet and Bond instinctively ducked. The Jaguar's engine howled into the night as it took one last despairing leap off the path and nose-dived into a sandbank.

If only the engine would stop its infernal screaming. If only his ears would stop ringing. The sound solidified and focused into the howling of the Homer. It was still transmitting and he was still alive. He prised his sticky forehead from the padded leather dashboard and lurched against the car door. A bank of sand wedged it tightly to the frame. Bond looked around, realising that his world was askew. He prised himself between the two front seats and clambered uphill through the smashed rear window. A ferocious wind tugged at his crimson bandage as he kicked at the sprung boot lid and dropped to the sand in the shadow of the upraised rear wheels. The pain in his ribs had subsided: a bad sign. Not long now. Bond clambered up a grass-strewn slope past the remains of the Jaguar and saw the Land Rover plugged in the beach about fifty yards away, its engine still running. The driver's door gaped open. Beneath it, Bond could make out the familiar shape of his Walther, dormant in the sand, from where deep divots traced Milly's mad dash for the water.

The wind tore tears from Bond's eyes, but he could make out a wooden dinghy making heavy weather against the black waves pounding the shore. About half a mile out sat a black lighthouse on a black island – the Russian submarine, a tiny light signalling the path for its target. A momentary lull in the wind carried the sound of the straining dinghy engine. Bond turned away from the sight and slid back down the slope to the wrecked car. He reached into the wide-open boot and tapped the release catch. He half crouched, half fell behind the car and groaned at the sight of the sand piled around the precious pipe. The reinforced chassis was ruined, but it might have deflected most of the impact from the vital strut. He scooped sand from underneath the car to reach the rifle, not thinking of the racking coughs that forced him to spit black clots on the coarse sand. A last tug and the mud-coated car gave up its prize. The pipe was scratched but seemed intact. Bond turned and staggered to the crest of the grassy dune, where he fell exhausted to his knees, and peered dumbly at the dinghy fighting the rolling waves. She was more than halfway to the sub.

The sand was slowly crumbling underneath him. He couldn't make the shot; in this wind, and on an unsteady footing, he needed help. The blood roaring in his ears mingled with the crash of waves. Think, man! At the base of the dune lay flotsam, trapped by wiry grass rippling and thrashing in the wind. Bond grabbed a husk of a pine branch and snapped it in three. He wrenched strands from a clump of bindweed, gasping as his wound unzipped further. Not long now, not long now. His strength failing him, Bond cut the grass with the sgian dubh, and bound the sticks together at one end, leaving a cradle for the gun. Ari would approve. On his knees, he jammed the makeshift tripod into the sand and reached for the rifle only for his left hand to shake uncontrollably. Bond watched dispassionately, as though from far away, as his fingers spasmed. He shook his left arm and felt nothing. Fatigue and blood loss were combining to cripple him. The first symptoms of shock were crashing through his system. He spat out blood, his mouth full of iron, and heard nothing but the sea. One-handed then. Do it right or not at all. Bond cradled the rifle in his lap. Extend the stock. Fix the scope. Pick up the bullet. Pick up the bullet. Fumblers deal a dead man's it up. Pull back the chamber. _Clack._ Slot in the round. Chamber it. _Click._ He squinted at the end of the barrel, which now seemed very far away, and tried to rest it in the gnarled wooden claw, but he overbalanced and dropped the barrel onto the tripod, causing it to creak ominously. But at last he could lie prone, his filthy, cold limbs forgotten; nothing mattered now but the task before him. Nothing mattered but muck and bullets.

Bond wedged his right eye against the cold rubber eyepiece and saw nothing until his eyes adjusted to the chiaroscuro scene before him. The dinghy was a slightly lighter shade of black in the churning sea. The hunched figure steering the boat was distinguished by a pale headscarf. As he watched, Bond saw a lock of golden hair slip out from under the headscarf and stream to one side like a guttering flame. She was struggling to keep the boat on a steady course. Oh, you silly little bitch! All that beauty, all that determination, all that spirit – all wasted. And all for the want of a kind word here, a smile there. For want of a nail a kingdom was lost.

He would have one shot; if he missed then she would duck down and be too far out by the time she reached the sub. A rolling tide heaved the boat up and down. Bond settled himself deeper into the sand dune and tried to ignore the creeping cold in his legs. He waited for the boat to crest a wave and at last saw Milly's head silhouetted against the sheet metal sky. For an absurd moment a childhood memory of shooting tin ducks at a fairground stall rose before him. The waves frothed and blurred, his view through the scope canting like a film that had jumped its tracks. His forehead drooped and grazed the cool, welcoming sand. Let someone else do it. He was empty. There was nothing left; let someone else do it. He was just one man with a gun. That's all he had ever been, just one man with – hadn't someone told him that? Ari? No – it was Price. Price had told him that. Ari had said – had said something, but what was it? He squeezed the rifle with his one good hand, as though he could force it to give up the answer. He squeezed harder still, trying to crush the pain away until a hacking cough forced him to relent. Freezing air pierced his lungs and, through his streaming eyes, Bond watched his fingers sidle across the gun's stock, a sluggish white spider searching for purchase. How absurd to be holding on for dear life to a lump of steel and wood! But he had his answer. Hold on to it he would.

The black tunnel loomed ahead, beckoning, drawing him in until he felt the kiss of rubber around his aching right eye. The tin duck was out there somewhere – and there it was, the dinghy's bows almost breached by the threshing waves. Concentrate. Win the goldfish. With a right to left wind the round would climb. The head wind would make the bullet dip. Split the difference. Remember to fire between heartbeats. Squeeze the trigger; don't snatch. The rifle's tiny trigger eased back, sending what Bond instinctively knew was a wild shot ten yards to Milly's left. There was no reaction from her; she hadn't seen the far-off splash as the bullet cleft the water, and the screaming wind had muffled the rifle's retort. Bond blindly reloaded – oh, for a magazine, you stupid bastard! – praying that the millennium he took to do it would still leave him time for one more shot. The scope told the tale: she was nearly out of range. The black metallic island was almost within Milly's reach, the submarine's searchlight illuminating the silver water raging before her. A huddle of gesticulating sailors staggered and swayed on the main hull, grappling irons in hand. Bond's numbed fingers scrabbled at the traversing wheel. Breathe, breathe; calm, calm. He was nothing but an eye and a crooked finger. The wind sheared foam from the waves, but he heard nothing, saw nothing but the golden mane bob and weave soundlessly in the centre of the long, dark tunnel. Something had alerted Milly – perhaps it was the anxious faces of the sailors waiting on the submarine's deck, perhaps it was some sixth sense – but for a few seconds she turned to face the beach. The crosshairs tracked the smooth skin below the headscarf. Bond saw those marvellous eyes once more, this time running with salt water, and the strained, terrified look on her face. She seemed to be looking for something. Her chin lifted. He sent her a bullet.

A fraction after he pulled the trigger, Bond saw the dinghy rock over a particularly malevolent wave. _Missed._ His target sat stock still, her hand steady at the tiller. Another wave crashed into the dinghy's bow and Milly cocked her head once more, but this time the lovely head rolled sickeningly and Bond realised he had broken her neck. Her head lolled at an unnatural angle, her jaw slack. The dinghy began to turn crazily decreasing circles, a dead hand on the tiller, its pilot's head mimicking the rise and fall of the waves. Sand spat into Bond's face. He slumped behind the dune to avoid the submarine's machinegun fire. The metallic chattering stopped and Bond, sprawled on his back, listened to the outboard motor's mindless drone. Above him the clouds broiled and tumbled, a cauldron full of mercury. The first seagull of the day flapped overhead. Or was it a vulture? He couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure of anything any more. The crazed buzzing of the outboard motor came closer. Dear God, she was coming for him! The buzzing filled his ears. He could see her staggering along the beach, her head flopping repulsively on a spindly neck. He must have missed and she was going to finish him. She was calling for him and Bond moaned in fear, feebly raising an arm to ward off the monster. She was calling for him. The monster grabbed his wrist.

"Commander Bond?"


	21. Chapter 14 - The Very Thing

THE VERY THING

"Congratulations, Sir James." M cradled the white phone receiver between his shoulder and chin while he turned the pages of the report that lay on the desk before him.

"Thank you, M, but the honour hasn't been conferred officially yet."

"You forget, it's my job to know tomorrow's news today. I gather your Nobel Prize is richly deserved."

"That's not for me to say, but it is most gratifying to receive acknowledgement from my peers, especially when – "

"Indeed, but I don't wish to detain you from your patients for any longer than is necessary, so if I may ask you one or two questions about your report on Lady Denbigh?"

"Of course."

Was there a little resentment in Sir James Molony's voice? Well, bruised feelings couldn't be helped. Sir James might well be one of the world's most brilliant neurologists, but there were times when M was relieved that the Service's unofficial nerve specialist didn't charge by the hour. M perused a glossy black-and-white 6" x 4" society portrait of a young woman, supplied by kind permission of The Lady after a request to that august publication from a flustered young researcher. Universal Exports was researching a book celebrating the great families of Scotland, and if they would be so kind? They would and they were. A doe-eyed woman dressed in a tightly-cut hacking jacket and jodhpurs stood in front of a studio-bound rose trellis. The monochrome print did not betray the bizarre eye condition described in the file's notes, but M noted her gently parted lips, curled as if to suggest that she was well aware that the whole process was faintly ridiculous. Still, the photo was far more glamorous than the usual mug-shots that crossed his desk.

"It's a pity about Lady Denbigh, Sir James. I can't help thinking that she would have made a near unbeatable bridge partner."

"Or chess player – she could have memorised every opening variation without effort. But she really was extraordinary, M. Though some people have what is known as a photographic memory, Lady Denbigh had a very rare ability to memorise both visual and auditory stimuli. I've long thought it a qualification for genius. The Catholic Church once considered Allegri's Miserere to be such a miraculous treasure that it banned anyone from copying the work on pain of excommunication. Mozart heard one performance, memorised it and wrote it down note for note."

M looked at his watch. "Fascinating. What I want to know is – is it likely the Russians or anyone else has more of these "memory agents"?

"Most unlikely."

"Can we develop any of our own?"

"If you mean what I think you mean, then no. The mental strain involved in recording and storing sights and sounds is too great to induce artificially. It's the kind of ability you're blessed or cursed with. I heard of one case where the sufferer was confined to a sensory deprivation tank."

"Would some of these hallucinogenic drugs I hear about be of use?"

"The Americans have already gone some way down that route and I've heard a few horror stories – paranoia, fitting, manic depression and so on. In my opinion it would be unwise to risk the sanity of personnel in the hope that one might gain some nebulous and unproven advantage."

"Thank you, I'll take your advice on board."

"Now look, M, your eyes might light up at the prospect of turning Service staff into Recording Angels but I'm not about to recommend - "

"Thank you, Sir James, but that's not your decision to make. Anything further to add?"

"Alright, have it your own way. But I'll still send in another report on the matter, and see if I can knock some sense into that head of yours. One of my more primitive methods of treatment."

"I'll be sure to read it. Now, your patients must be waiting. About this evening – "

"Seven-thirty at Blades. And you're paying for supper. Basildon says he can get someone to make up a four."

"Agreed." M replaced the telephone in its cradle before Sir James had a chance to reply. He turned to the last page of the file.

To:_M_

From:_Head of Medical Section_

Copy Approved:_J.M._

Subject:_Lady Denbigh (commonly known as Millicent), née Daphne Bonham._

Cause of death:_Severe trauma to brain stem, specifically the severance of the second cervical vertebra by a high-velocity gunshot. Higher brain functions would have ceased more or less instantly, though it is possible that the lower motor functions might have continued for a few seconds after de facto expiration. Lung tissue is flooded with seawater. The absence of foam in the respiratory passages indicates the fluid was ingested after death._

Distinguishing Features: _Upper body covered in minor contusions and scar tissue. X-rays reveal a number of healed bone fractures. Subject suffered from heterochromia (non-matching retinas), a condition that normally results from the contraction of eye diseases such as the Horner, Waardenburg or "piebald" syndromes. However, the profusion of injuries both old and new suggests that the heterochromia was the result of a violent blow to the head, resulting in the detachment of the left retina. Cranial capacity is perfectly normal, but the hippocampi are remarkably prominent. In addition, both medial and lateral nuclei of the mammillary bodies appear enlarged. The brain is dense and weighs over a pound more than would be expected for a female of her age and weight. Further research in this area might yield startling results: per ardua ad astra, so to speak._

M tutted in annoyance and wrote in green ink: "Refrain from corrupting what we must now call the Queen's English with these interlopers_. _Absit invidia." He grunted at his little joke and placed the dossier to one side before pressing a button on his intercom.

"Ask 007 to come in, Miss Moneypenny."

M busied himself with lighting his pipe, noting in passing that Bond stood waiting until a quick nod gave him permission to be seated. He slid a yellowed edition of the Evening News across the desk.

"Welcome back. Just to confirm about the Denbigh woman, I had a word with the Home Office. They slapped a 'D' Notice on the whole mess – the press printed the bare details but no more."

Bond had already digested the broadsheet accounts of what was being reported as a crazed servant's retribution. He read with increasing distaste the Evening News's breathless tale of 'A Highland Tragedy'. After being spurned by the fragrant Lady Denbigh, the attaché to the Russian embassy had run berserk through Idlerave, killing the unfortunate woman, her husband (the last of the Denbighs), and his Russian colleague. There was some mystery as to how Lady Denbigh's body had been recovered near the coast after the madman had contrived to burn himself to death in a bothy near Idlerave House, but the events of that fateful night were still unclear. It took Bond but a moment to gauge the lurid nature of the 'journalism' and then drop the newspaper on M's desk as though it was contaminated.

Following Bond's lead, M held the paper between forefinger and thumb. "Your involvement has been glossed over. One rag called it 'snobbery with violence'. I think we can file the Evening News dossier in the round filing cabinet." He dropped the newspaper in the waste bin whose contents would be emptied into the basement furnace by the evening's end.

"I've read your report," said M, pausing to suck heavily on his pipe. "Your transport recommendations have been passed on to Q Branch. Think you might have ruffled a few feathers there, 007."

"Sir, about MacIntyre?"

"Who? Oh, the poor man who found you? Terrible thing to happen. There's nothing we can do in an official capacity, of course, but it seems that he was a veteran of the Black Watch. I'll get Accounts to send something to his family via the British Legion – we'll say the Home Office miscalculated his war pension."

"Thank you, sir. May I chip in as well? Without MacIntyre's intervention the whole thing would have gone belly-up."

"If you feel it necessary." M looked curiously across the desk. Bond felt his chief's piercing gaze examine him. He held his breath and tried to decipher M's poker face. This was it. He was in or out.

"The M.O. has passed you fit for active service. You look as though you've lost some weight, James. How are you feeling?"

How long was it since the old man had called him by his first name? Bond couldn't remember. There was a momentary urge to apologise to the man he respected so much, to reassure M that Bond would stay focused on the job, but something stopped him from saying so. They understood each other. Let it lie.

"Fine, sir. I still have a few bruises, but nothing serious." As with the over-cautious Chief Medical Officer, Bond decided not to mention the four painkillers he still took each morning.

"Good. The Service needs the Double-O Section at full strength. I must say, it was a stroke of luck that the Appleton's sawbones was an expert with knife wounds."

Bond nodded in agreement. He had been lucky that a doctor had reached him at all, let alone a superb surgeon. HMS Appleton's radar operator had been nearly deafened by a most unusual signal emanating from the Sutherland coast. By the time Coastal Defence had ordered the minesweeper to make all possible speed to help a Royal Navy commander in distress, the radar's whine had revealed another strange contact a mile off shore, and the balloon had gone up – not that Bond had known anything about it. Before his wartime call-up, HMS Appleton's surgeon had practised as a doctor in Glasgow during the notorious razor wars and could therefore decipher the bush telegraph of cuts, slashes, hacks and punctures that the Gorbals gangs had used to carve their way through frail flesh. When Bond emerged two days later from what the surgeon wryly called his 'brief coma', he knew that he owed his life to the lean, stern-faced yet genial man with a taste for tall glasses of iced gin. Apparently Bond had died on the operating table – twice. As sometimes happens in such trying circumstances, the two men became firm friends in a very short space of time; it seemed they had much in common. Bond, a captive audience, had nevertheless listened with fascination to the older man's unlikely anecdotes about mountaineering, travel in the Far East, and idyllic times in Geneva and a still peaceful Munich. And if sometimes the tired patient began to feel the strain? Well, the absorption of a glass or three of ship's rum eased any mild discomfort. Perhaps he would take up the invitation to visit his new friend's estate the next time he was in the West Indies. Perhaps.

The surgeon's departing words before Bond was stretchered off at Faslane lingered: "Try not to get into such a state of excitement again – unless she's worth it."

Bond thought it very good advice. He realised M was waiting for an answer.

"The Navy took good care of me, sir."

"I should think so. As you know, while you were confined below decks the Appleton and HMS Reliant escorted the sub back to neutral waters, during which they managed to get useful information about its radar signature." M stoked his pipe with satisfaction. "Well now, it seems our Russian friends have developed a new type of submarine and this time it's nuclear-powered. Very fast and very quiet. The NATO boffins are calling it the November class. The tub managed to park itself on our north coast without Coastal Defence being any the wiser but, thanks to your usual calm, orderly methods," - Bond detected the ghost of a wintry smile - "we've got a much better chance of detecting her and her sisters in the future. Her Majesty's Government has also complained very strongly about the 'accidental' straying into British waters. The Russians are naturally very sorry - it won't happen again, they trust this unfortunate incident won't sour the amicable relationship between the Russian and British peoples, and so on - the usual rubbish. Apparently their navigational equipment was malfunctioning. The First Sea Lord sent Admiral Gorshkov a rocket."

"Pity it wasn't the real thing," said Bond.

"Quite. Perhaps we'll send him an atlas for Christmas."

Bond returned to his office with as much of a 'well done' as he was ever going to get from M. The room was still empty. Both Bill and Francis had fallen off the map and neither man had been in touch in weeks. But all three sets of desks and chairs were dusted and polished – the Service always expected the return of a Double-O agent, even if their whereabouts were unknown. To do otherwise was bad for morale. Bond opened a window to let in some fresh air and release a manic fly. He gazed sightlessly at the traffic edging along Regent's Park. Bond tried to remember the last time he had spoken to his colleagues and couldn't. What about Milly? Could she have had something to do with their disappearance? Perhaps an overhead remark at a rowdy party, or a glance through her husband's confidential papers had provided a tiny but deadly hint for Britain's enemies?

Bond turned from the window and flopped into his chair. It was futile to speculate on such matters. He picked up a pencil and began to work his way through memos and circulatory notes. He tried to deal with the alarmingly large stack of folders squatting in his in-tray, but the deathly quiet office seemed to force his mind to wander. He closed his eyes and replayed Milly's last moments. She had turned to face the beach. Why? Was she saying a last goodbye to her home? Was she gathering her strength? Surely she must have heard the sailors screaming behind her.

And then Bond's pencil slipped from his fingers, tumbled onto the blotter and rolled off the desk. He made no attempt to stop it. She had seen the first bullet splash. She had turned and was looking for him. Bond swore softly as he recalled that last strange upward tilt of her chin. She had given herself to him. Perhaps that last look at the charnel house, that last urging from Schaalk and the thrill of pleasure in his voice had shocked her to the core. Perhaps the thought that she would be responsible for yet more torture and killing was more than she could bear. Perhaps Bond wasn't the only one that night to experience a pleasant drive through Hell.

It is said that in the last seconds before death one's whole life flashes before one's eyes. Bond hadn't experienced anything like that on that evil night on the Scottish coast. But would Milly have seen every last detail, every waking moment of her tragic life before succumbing to the inevitable? If so, how she must have suffered as her memories turned on her, replaying in unrelenting detail everything about her married life - every single blow, insult and contemptuous glance. He decided it was just as well that he couldn't clearly recall his friends' faces. A good memory was a curse.

A rap on the office door preceded the appearance of a face he did know well, that of Bill Tanner, M's Chief of Staff, and Bond's closest friend in the Service. Bond scolded himself. One must hang on to the good things in life and forget the rest.

"How did it go with the old man?"

"Well, he's never going to make me faint with damn praise, that's for certain. But I think he's pleased."

"Of course he is. Come on, I want to lunch at Langan's and try some of that oyster chowder you're always raving about."

Good old Bill. They both knew he was proposing the oldest medicine of all: amusing company, good food and strong drink. And would that rather attractive cocktail waitress with the devilishly seductive lisp still be there? There was only one way to find out. As the two men left the room, Bond heard Loelia Ponsonby emit a frustrated cry. She looked angrily at Bond and Tanner.

"It's this OHMS stationery – why do people insist on stapling envelopes these days? I've lost my letter opener and this is the second nail I've broken this week."

Bond took hold of her slim, pale fingers and surveyed the damage wreaked by an errant staple. He gently patted his beautiful secretary's hand and purred, "There, there Lil. Fear not."

He returned to his office and scanned his desk. There, between the shrapnel paperweight and shell-case ashtray ("Ardennes '44 vintage," as he kept reminding the disapproving Ponsonby), was the sgian dubh. Bond smiled to himself.

"I have the very thing."

FIN


End file.
